


Living Hands

by Nightmist



Series: Errata, Marginalia, Palimpsest [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Biting, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Group Sex, Ishgard Sandwich Making, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Romance, Self-Reflection, Shameless use of cutscene dialogue, Slash, Smut, Sparring is a form of flirting, also definitely SMUT, everyone's bi here, feral sides, humor is a spice, implied/referenced slash, love algebra, no beta we die like men, oops (thanks Microsoft Works!), wait no like DEFINITELY slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 104,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: Because there's a million facets of how a hero can love, and there is no reason not to show this one. Working through Heavensward events and developing relationship from the perspective of a specific Warrior of Light, or, how can anyone NOT love all the giraffes.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, eventual Warrior of Light/Aymeric de Borel, eventual Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood/Aymeric de Borel
Series: Errata, Marginalia, Palimpsest [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666165
Comments: 164
Kudos: 200





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Is this self-indulgent? Sure. It is deeply enjoyable for me to write and read? Sure. Hopefully, it will be at least a little entertaining to someone else as you can watch me pick apart what I think makes Ishgardians tick. Expect angst. Expect smut. Expect random sparkles of cute or silly or sweet, because people are like that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone dearly wants to find a particular event, or is avoiding the NSFW bits!

1) **Grasping** \- Into the Dravinian Forelands

2) **Warm and Capable** \- And onto the Churning Mists

3) **What Hands Hid** \- Reflecting on revelations from the Churning Mists

4) **Dreaming Through Your Fingers** \- Nightmares in the Mists, NSFW chapter

5) **Winding Thread** \- planning for the Aery

6) **Knitting Fingers Together** \- More emotional preparation for the Aery, NSFW/slash content

7) **Stuck in the Past** \- The Aery and immedate aftermath

8) **Snagged Nails and Tattered Lace** \- Ishgard in chaos and making Very Bad Decisions about confronting authority figures, NSFW chapter

9) **Grip Growing Slack** \- The Vault

10) **If It Were Cold** \- The immediate aftermath of the Vault, regret and comfort

11) **Holding Warmth Together** \- Healing, physical and... the other type of physical. NSFW chapter.

12) **Funerals and Futures** \- Because some people DESERVED to be mourned on screen, dammit

13) **Braided Together** \- Two small arrangements made, and a much more intricate arrangement of bodies after. Decidedly NSFW chapter.

14) **Holding Out** \- The Vanu and a retrieval from Gridania, the beginning of a subtle branching

15) **We Let It Fall** \- How to slip into Azys Lla, and tragedies not of your own choosing

16) **By Slow Degrees** \- Azys Lla and letting off grief stress in the way hormonal people do. NSFW chapter.

17) **Chill They Dreaming Nights** \- Endings, of enemies and perhaps of more; the beginning of a reality shaped new and jagged

18) **Thine Own Heart** \- Comfort and explanations; reassurance. NSFW chapter.

19) **Unfinished Business** \- History and waiting

20) **Love's Feverous Citadel** \- To things that must be spoken, to time unfurling. NSFW.

21) **In the Icy Silence** \- Nightmares of the trapped; movement towards new discovery

22) **The Cutting Edge** \- Discoveries, reunions, and bad news on returning home.

23) **Catch As You Fall** \- Traitors and trials

24) **And No Birds Sing** \- Those lost in the light and failures of diplomacy

25) **To Stand Together** \- Conversations with siblings, of a sort

26) **Hand on Hilt _-_** The Grand Melee and aftermath; NSFW.

27) **Cracked and Worn** \- Peace conferences are, frankly, starting to give Anya hives.

28) **Palely Loitering** \- Sometimes, you have to know the truth for yourself, even if it means do something unwise.

29) **With a Kindred Hand** \- Caught and consequences

30) **Among Cloudy Trophies** \- Towards Zentith and a plea for aide

31) **To Never Letting Go** \- The Final Steps


	2. Grasping

Estinien Wyrmblood, Azure Dragoon of Ishgard, hated to admit it, but without knowing their history, from the outside, the two Scions looked… extremely unimpressive. Enough so that he sometimes had to remind himself of knowing better. The boy was barely old enough to join the fighting, by Ishgardian standards, and the vaunted _Warrior of Light_ did not look at all like a warrior, but rather more like a pampered house cat with her nose in a book. Even as a clear adult, she didn't even top the boy by more than an ilm or two… Hyur could be short, but this was something else altogether. Even odder, they were both arcanists, which he couldn't help but notice were support troops. Not ones you'd send to the front lines, or haring off to talk to dragons.

  
Their first engagement at the Amphitheatre had, however, shown him that it might be better not to assume either of them to be typical of their kind. Certainly, they both flung spells like he had expected of arcanists, mixed in with a healer's magic, but… she didn't actually heal like any other healer he'd seen in combat before. The boy did, the occasional gestured incantation and a feeling like someone slapping a bandage against your wounds. Oh, sometimes that came from her too, but extremely rarely. Instead, he would feel her aether wrap around him the second before a swipe of a heretic's lance or sword, the clash of transformed claws, deflecting it aside, then sinking into him in tingling waves of hot and cold or wash through him like a deluge that chased away wounds. In the split second of gaze he steals in shock the first time a lance is turned away from him by shining green light, her heart's-blood eyes meet his, challenging and proud. It was not at all what he had been led to expect from the midnight-aubergine haired, proper scholar, reticent and haunted by too many recent ghosts. Not broken, exactly, but… fragile, had been his guess, especially given how much she fascinated too many people he knew. Most men were a fool for a delicate woman. He thought of it but a moment then, too busy keeping them all alive, but his mind kept returning to the observation later. Even if the pair could fight, they were both mages, clad in soft leather and fabric, too easy to hurt.

  
Estinien finds himself watching the so called Warrior, Kohanya Chelewae, the rest of the day. She hides her fierceness well; other than when that glimpse he caught in the first melee, she is quick to cast and heal both in hunting seeking a new route, yet her expression almost never slides outside of polite warmth or focus. The small things he does see, however, began to better suggest why the Lord Commander was so eager to trust her as an ally. She’s competent, shouldering what work comes their way without complaint, and only slightly less polished in her manners than a noble. The miqo’te woman treats her younger companion as he’d expect of a superior officer, and while Alphinaud doesn’t exactly order her around, he can see the shadows of a history of the boy thinking that he’s the one in charge too. Despite that, the dragoon can see that she’s protective of Leveilleur, quick to place herself between him and a threat, and ready with a gentle word when he starts to berate himself. Given what Estinien has heard of what drove them to come to his homeland, her seeming lack of any blame or resentment aimed at the other is a surprise.

  
By the end of that night, when they'd taken refuge in Tailfeather with their new ally, Iceheart, he also learns not to duel her to first blood - to not to trust the slight gleam of mischief in those dark red eyes, like candlelight shining through wine, when she proposes the idea. He thought it was going to be an easy challenge when she suggests sparring to get a bit better acquainted, and especially when she sets the terms. Then, mere seconds after they take positions across a small stretch of dirt and begin, he finds his lance slamming against an unforgiving aetherial barrier instead of yielding flesh when he charges in a dive, while a flick of fingers over paper sends a small spark of magic darting at him. It doesn’t even look like anything impressive, no thaumaturge’s fire or ice, or conjurer’s winds. _Pitiful._ The miqo'te's lips curl into a strange smirk as she spins to the side and he draws his spear back again, ready to slap the expression away as he crumples the ward around her with the force of his skill -- and Estinien feels a sudden sharp sting along his left cheek as the spell bloom from his skin, rupturing it and leaving a thin line of blood to trickle down to his jaw. Cursing blisteringly, he let his lance go slack, trying to lock her with his gaze through his helm. It was… rare… to regret its presence like he did in that moment. The damnable woman was purring! And after she'd arranged things to best him in seconds! Then Kohanya reaches up and smiles with genuine warmth as she wipes away the small cut and the lingering foul magics with a brief touch, leaving a small smear of his blood on her gloves.

  
"Done underestimating me?" That smug purr resonates through her words, but there is a kindness in them, pleased with her skill but not gloating, reflecting the agreeable, almost biddable nature that he'd been led to expect from the vaunted Warrior of Light, veteran of other people's struggles. The contrast pulls a startled bark of laughter from him. He supposes that no matter how well he mouthed the polite words Ishgardian society demanded, his inner distrust had shown through, and he could not fault her for having the nerve to call him on it.

  
"Yes, Scholar. Friends, then?"

  
"Friends."

\-----

The next night, unable to keep from the desire to salve his ego a little and furthermore eager for anything that would keep him from having to talk to the unbearably deluded heretic, he approaches Kohanya and offers her his gauntlet-clad hand as they wait around the fire for Alphinaud to cook supper, a wry smile curling at his pale lips. "Another round. Til yield, this time." She nods in acceptance, and they move a short distance from the camp, stand at a few paces apart, size one another up. Their encounters with the Gnath over the course of the day have left both wearied, but it has also given him a chance to see how she fights in more detail.

  
Estinien has formed an idea of what is likely to give him the advantage, and when he engages this time, he is far more cautious, trying to lead with short strikes that let him determine when she is and isn’t fully shielded. The effect is impressive, allowing her to block blows that would send a seasoned knight to their knees so that they merely cause a slight stagger, or sending flashes of aether over her body that quickly lessen wounds. Worse, even if he can keep her busy, the small bug-like faery woman who accompanies her darts in with frustratingly good timing, making it difficult to build up any sort of increasing damage. Still, he presses on until finally he sees the opening he’s been waiting for after a hard thrust breaks down another shield, spinning back rapidly to slam the shaft of his lance against Kohanya’s wrist, hard. She gasps sharply as her hand spasms, dropping her codex, and the accompanying faery disappears. He takes immediate advantage, a high leap and no hesitation in descending on her like a meteor, knocking the small woman off her feet and onto her back. Estinien then freezes, his lance point resting menacingly at her throat. The Eye is keening in a roar from the back of his mind, singing of blood and victory and power, of joy to be found in an enemy broken or begging at your feet, leaving him panting almost as hard as she is from the force of his impact. Teeth gritted against the unnatural, violent urges riding through his blood, he grinds out, "You yield?"

  
For a second, he is afraid - no, _hopes_ \- been afraid! - that she will not, that despite her breathless panting and the transfixed look in eyes a shade darker than the trickle of blood that wells from her split lip, he will have to press the lance against that pale throat til she passes out to get her to give in. He wishes fervently that the Eye wasn’t so excited by that idea. Then she laughs, her usual calm face breaking into pleasure as she wipes away the blood with the back of one hand, head inclining as she concedes. "I yield to you, Ser Dragoon. If you're a savage, you use it well."

  
His face contorts in frustration at the reminder of Iceheart's barb, but her good grace about the loss helps. Estinien straightens and sets his lance at his back, offering the petite mage a hand up as he works to gentle the draconic anger in his bones, wind it under control once more. It is no doubt just the extent of Nidhogg's current rage, combined with the exhausting presence of so many stubborn comrades, that had made it briefly surge so strongly. As if to prove it, he even retrieves her fallen hat for her, setting it back atop her head, being careful not to bend the strange forms of her feline ears as he turns it a bit to rest more securely. "I use everything well. Come on, I imagine dinner is ready."


	3. Warm and Capable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien is not good at making friends, but sometimes, they happen anyway.

He is starting to understand her, he thinks, as the next few days settled into a sort of rhythm. They travel, Iceheart needles him, Alphinaud tries to make peace, or sometimes Kohanya. Someone - sometimes many someones - finds something that they just have to help them with, and smiling, good natured, Kohanya would do as bidded, no matter the task, as polite as Levelleiur but lacking the innate aura that screamed that this was someone of noble blood that you ought to watch your mouth with.

  
It’s not that Estinien considers himself gifted at reading people, but she is too much like Aymeric, his oldest friend, his… whatever they were. Something they were too smart to put words to, public or private, beyond comrades in arms. Both scholar and knight seem calm, measured, full of soft idealism to initial view, but hide a deep-running streak of willpower and violent capability. They both spent too damnably much time in thought and planning, but have bursts of powerful instincts. Aymeric and Kohanya alike seem to face their duty without flinching or question, no matter the personal cost. Both of them hide a surprisingly wry humor, often turned inward and born out of a harder past than they show easily. Aymeric had been deeply admiring and curious about her before the party had left the city, and part of Estinien is oddly tense at the idea of their return and the two spending more time together, and he isn’t sure if it’s because he wanted to keep de Borel's attention his own, or if he fears that his new favorite sparring and conversation partner will be lured away.

  
Much as he had with Aymeric in younger years, he finds he enjoys teasing her by making sure she gets sent on the dirtiest or bloodiest work as they try to convince dragons and Vath alike to their cause. It is hard to break the lowborn habit of liking to see the highborn set out of sorts, after all… And perhaps it assuages a little of his guilt at knowing they are risking her life to a primal or dragon by making sure she has every chance to protest or hang back. Seeing her return to camp, coat and hands both dripping wet from having to wash off nanka blood and slime capturing food for the Vath was enough to draw hidden smiles from him for hours, which he found he definitely needed when the boy suggests, downright breezily, sending her off to defeat the Gnath's primal god. Somewhat to his own surprise, the dragoon even openly challenges the idea, pointing out the risk to her life that involves. Despite what he’d felt ought to be an _extremely relevant worry_ , she accepts Alphinaud’s idea as if it was simply her duty, treating the much younger elezen the way he's had to treat far too many fool nobleman's sons pushed into command too early, but with none of his poorly hidden resentment for it. The fact that Iceheart goes with too makes things only marginally better.

  
Certainly, they do return, not as soon as he might hope, but much sooner than he fears. Iceheart is the more battered of the two, but when they spin the story of the encounter, it’s clear she wasn’t the one who finished the fighting. Well, that’s not exactly surprising. He respects the Lady, but he respects her like he would a venomous snake; she’s dangerous, and he should be careful of that. Which is not to imply that he doesn’t respect Kohanya, he just… trusts her more? Estinien isn’t really sure he likes that word for it, but he’s far more comfortable with her having his back in a fight, at least.

  
Kohanya's casting and ability to counter physical attacks continue to get better every time they practice after she and the heretic return victorious, which they try to do whenever the group pauses for a meal or to rest, all too aware of what might be looming ahead. His own fighting is reaching new peaks as well, driven by the urge to see that startled respect when he manages to pin her and the opportunity to actually have a challenge that while very different from facing dragons is at least actually unfamiliar and requiring thought and effort on his part. Even once he’s figured out what it takes - removing the book or managing to harm her faster than her healing can keep pace - to force her to yield, he only manages it about half the time, if that, and he suspects part of it is that he is possibly the only person learning to fully recognize her unusual magical skill set. Estinien finds himself drawn to the way conquering the Warrior of Light makes his blood boil and something that is wild and draconic surge through him, but purer than the seething hatred that usually roils in the Eye. A sort of fierce joy, rather than hatred. While he prefers the sensation, he doesn’t fully trust it, and makes sure that he keeps himself armored and alert, hiding it and himself away as much as possible. Let his face be shielded, let her be oblivious to the beasts screaming in his marrow. If she truly is unaware; he suspects another skill held in common with his Commander is an uncanny instinct for other people's hidden thoughts. Still, if she knows, she says nothing of it, no barbed comments in combat or pointed questions when she probes him for information about Coerthas, dragons, himself, anything that strikes her curiosity. Apparently, the old adage about cats applied to Miqo'te too. At least when it becomes an unbearable amount of talking, he finds he can shut her up like a complaining tabby as well, resting one of his large hands atop a head that doesn't even reach his shoulders or sliding it under the edge of her mage’s hat so his fingers can find her ears to rub at the base. She whines about the indignity afterwards, but never until he has already stopped.

\-----

"What did you think of Thordan?" Estinien's question to his companion is quiet, pitched relatively low, but he knew it would reach the ears of the miqo'te mage sitting a fulm away from him, toying with a blade of grass.

  
Having succeeded in gaining the trust of the… _flying mittens_ in the Churning Mists, they had traveled westward, and waited now in camp below the towering spire. After dinner, and more uncomfortable comments, Lady Iceheart had moved aside to talk to their escort, as she at least seemed to enjoy the creature's company. Alphinaud had looked rather uncertain himself, and flitted back and forth, but he had finally gotten drawn into a rather extensive conversation with the other two, which gave the dragoon a chance to quietly talk to his remaining comrade, after having drawn back away from the heat of the fire, which he seemed to need far less than she did. To his surprise, she had actually followed him, although she did huddle a bit into her hat and heavy robes. She’s still settled nearby, watching him when her gaze isn’t on her hands.

  
Kohanya is usually quick to share her thoughts with him when pushed, but this time, she remains uncharacteristically quiet. Estinien is unsurprised when a glance at the scholar's face shows wariness. She's had her share of pain come from someone making a public evaluation at the wrong time. "It is safe to speak your mind truly, Kohanya. I have no duty to him personally, and I ask as a friend."

  
Kohanya gives a slight nod, strands of deep purple hair falling over her shoulders and catching on the fabric of her chirurgeon’s garb. She takes a moment to organize her thoughts, then answers him, still choosing words carefully. "He was the very picture of graciousness. And yet…"

  
Estinien prods her, both verbally and with an outstretched foot, bunching her skirts around his greave. "And yet…?" He shouldn't find the smear of mud that is left behind funny, but inarguably, he did.

  
The miqo'te scholar shoots him a dirty look but she answers all the same. "For a man whose son brings such feelings of calm and assurance, I found myself always on edge in his presence. Without cause, but… Thordan makes the fur on my tail stand on end."

  
The Azure Dragoon's eyes widen, and if he had not already been watching her like a hunting hawk, he knew his head would have swung to her. "I… was not aware you had heard that particular bit of gossip, Kohanya. Someone should have known to better keep a civil tongue around new wards to the city instead of spreading ridiculous slander." He is not pleased at having to lie to the woman who is rapidly becoming a genuine friend, but there are some things he could never bring himself to put at risk.

  
Her face lights with triumph, and he instantly knows he has somehow failed in his deception and, worse, has told her something she wanted to know. Forget cats, the woman was a _rat_ when it came to ferreting out things people wanted hidden and tucking them away in her mind until she decided to topple you with the shock of knowing it! Her head shifts, and he catches the a thoughtful gleam of deep red through her lashes, and a sudden shock of humiliated realization hits. He'd failed to hide it because he's gotten too into the habit of relying on his helm covering both his features and his reactions, but she is short enough that she could see them from below despite the shadows. Of all the _damned_...

  
"So it is true." Kohanya leans back, eyes now on his face openly as she tilts her head towards to his, like a flower turning to the sun. In that moment, she seems very much the kind of cool, thoughtful lady who would have fit into Ishgard like a puzzle piece, had she been half again as tall, and her ears on the side of her head rather than atop. Instead, the nobility assumed she was really a wild, dangerous, and probably lustful beast at heart, given those ears, the curling lines of white stripes at the edges of her face, the tail that lashed against her calves when she thought. A treacherous corner of Estinien's mind whispers, _As if you're any better than what they say about her._ As he stiffens further, she speaks on, voice pitched soothingly, and reaches over to lay one hand on his thigh in physical reassurance. "Peace. Someday, you'll tell me what makes you so protective of him… even more than he makes most of us, and Aymeric inspires a desire to shield him. I would not harm you or him to speak of it indiscreetly. I have… experience in knowing what it is like, to be misborn by the rules of your society, and he has always been genuinely kind in my experience."

  
More tension than Estinien cares to admit he'd been holding ebbs from his body. He trusts her word - and wonders if she has some notion exactly why he protects his _old friend_ so intensely - but much like with her suspicions about the Lord Commander's heritage, she would hold her peace til the right time. Which meant he could still avoid confronting certain difficult facts he did not know how to face directly. "Good." A moment more, and he moves his hand awkwardly to rest it atop the one of hers that lay on his thigh, his voice softening to a near whisper as he finds himself admitting to her one of the few things he's learned he could not get away with saying directly to Aymeric, and very much did not want any of their other companions to hear. "I don't trust him either."

  
The way she’s touching him - that he’s touching her - is not in any way inappropriate - well, perhaps a little, by high society standards - but it shouldn't soothe him so. However, it is so very rare that someone else reaches for him, whether to give or get comfort. Or that he would allow it if they did. He shifts his posture, his other leg, nearer to their companions, drawing up to shield the small intimacy. It makes him embarrassed and aware he is acting like a child sneaking sweets, but… For a few seconds, she seems to digest that fact, then the arcanist's quiet voice reaches his ears again. "So… If that rumor is true, what about the one about him and Lucia…?"

  
Estinien is, very briefly, jealous at the idea of her asking after Aymeric's romantic status. Which is _ridiculous_. For one thing, everyone did. For another, he was quite aware that he was the only attachment in the Lord Commander's life for some time now, even if the exact nature of their closeness was… muddied. Thirdly, they were hardly exclusive, given that secrecy and the utter lack of clarity or consistency in their time together, and anyway, he would never have it in him to deny his devoted friend something that made him happy… which the interest of the curious arcanist would very much do. Making sure to keep his face schooled through his reaction this time, he allows himself a dismissive snort of laughter. "No. Neither of them is that unprofessional, and the other set of rumors is an insistence that he is utterly virginal to prepare for joining the upper clergy." It is another point in Kohanya's favor that she looks at him like that idea was as ridiculous as he had always thought it was. Aymeric would serve Ishgard with his life, but he was someone who took action, not a priest.

  
After a brief spell to consider that, the miqo'te withdraws her hand, crossing her arms over her chest and hunching her shoulders as the winds in the thin air picked up once more. Estinien sighs, all but silent, having suspected she was pushing herself in the chilly weather. He stands, reaching down and not precisely picking up the small woman by her upper arms, but guiding her enough that it is a near thing. "Really, kitten. Go warm up and sleep, we have a great deal more to do in the morning. You can live without asking questions that long." The friendly endearment slips out without thought, and as soon as he realizes he's said it, the dragoon winces faintly. _Well, that was stupidly obvious and probably inappropriate too._

  
He waits for a chastisement, but after she studies him for a moment, the dark haired woman smiles wryly and murmurs, "At least you remember that cats have claws. You're right, though… I'll try and calm my mind and rest. Something you should remember to do too." Before she steps away, her tail thwaps a bit against his thighs, and the dragoon isn't quite sure if that was a voluntary movement or not… He turns his head to watch her as she heads for her tent and sleep, his own mind working more than he finds comfortable.


	4. What Hands Hid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What history lessons do to Estinien's brain. Because I didn't think he was gonna be the one wanting to front most of this, but he keeps stomping all over for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this is a bit more angst. All I can promise is next time there's angst and _too damn much smut_.

The next day starts with a bugling cry torn away into the winds, and the arrival of a dragon who shatters more than those winds ever could. For a certainty, Estinien has no need to show himself as cowed or impressed, especially as one of the first things they learn is that there is no true _goddess_ or _saint_ guiding and protecting the heretics, but merely one woman's ghostly shade of delusion. Part of him wants, very badly, to make more open scornful commentary on that, to continue the bickering that has been one of the guidelines to his days.

What stops him is not kindness, really, or even respect for the parts of her beliefs that are merely about peace, or seeing her pain. No, he catches a glimpse of Alpinaud's face as Iceheart's falls. The reminder is a white-hot needle into his spine, _there are people who can be better than you have been, and they will expect you to be better_. His own compassion has been worn thin by long ago loss and years of fighting against it, but enough of it remains to not want to shatter the faith of someone who seems to genuinely believe in his better nature. For that matter, he imagines that Kohanya would feel the same, although some corner of him wonders if she might not forgive it easier.

The tale spun after makes the question of these little squabbles become like the coldest air in his lungs, however, so chill they take away the ability to breathe easily. A history of lies, a history of savagery, of betrayal and something no better in the end than if his people had begun in murdering and consuming one another for power. His gut twists and writhes against the notion, burning with coiled shame and frustration, and in all ways, Estinien tries to doubt it, to retain some shred of certainty that Hraesvalgr, like any other being, spins the tale to make himself and his kind look better than they were. The others are not Coerthans like he is, either in truth or in their hearts, and he will not let himself be stopped from pushing back, questioning it.

Then he learns why the heretics sometimes transform into dragons. What dragon blood does, and to whom it can affect; _any of his people, least to greatest, have that corruption woven into their bones_. His reaction can be hidden, beyond the tension of muscles, the sudden great stress that turns limbs into aching bands, but the same can not be said for the others. Iceheart remains shattered and he can not feel anything other than an exhausted pity for her as he watches the horror and recognition wash over Alphinaud and Kohanya's faces. Both are often expressive, Alphinaud more openly, yet he knows her well too, and in the flickering of eyes, the sensation of them watching him sidelong, even before the boy comments on how many dragons _they_ have slain, he can see the count in their minds, the scales piling high against him with the bodies of his people twisted beyond recognition.

_If I had known this all along, would it have stayed my hand?_ For a moment, Estinien wonders, then the single golden baleful eye of Hraesvelgr is on him, and the wrym's resonant voice echoes in all their minds telling them that he can see the dragoon would "fight til the bitter end". _Fine. I am so twisted by the need for vengeance and ending a threat that I am made a villain? I can live with that. Ridicule it as much as you wish, and rot in your grief and unwillingness to change._ So that is what he shows to the others, in the shocked squabbling after: that in the end, it changes nothing. If Nidhogg is alive, he is a threat to Ishgard, and talking here did nothing to change that. So _he_ will find a way to change it, with the Eye, and with her power joined to his.

So they leave one ally, lost to their shattered chains of their own dreams, amid their own shards of a slim chance at peace, and as three, go and seek the Aery. By the time dark falls, they are close, if not so close to be worth pressing on in the wild and dragon-wrath haunted edges of the Mists, and they make camp in near silence, weighed down by too many unkind truths.


	5. Dreaming Through Your Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, 18+, I'm sorry, straight to hell in my own handbasket, etc. Nightmares and angst, hurt and comfort, and people clinging to each other in desperation.

Estinien woke from the nightmare with a start hours later, bolting upright in bed, his hand closing around the lance leaned nearby before he even realizes what he's doing. Bad dreams are no stranger to him, but it has been a long time since he had lashed out in his sleep. Then again, he's never slain the Great Wyrm's consort and learned the truth of his people's history in the span of too few days before, nor been looking at the possibility of facing the end of his lifetime goal in the nigh immediate future. A little bit of restless sleep is expected. He takes a few steadying breaths, trying to summon out of the fading dregs of the subconscious what was making his eyes burn with unshed tears. Not the usual fears, memories of the deaths of his family, of Nidhogg nearly consuming him. This was… different. Perhaps, something from the day's revelations, but this rings false as well. He takes a few more deep breaths, waiting. There, a piece slotted into place. Nidhogg, dark wings descending on Ishgard. Aymeric, bold and determined and - _foolish!_ screams the dark corners of his mind - meeting him on the bridge with the Temple Knights. Aymeric, armor caught in Nidhogg's fangs as the wyrm tossed him to the side, into one of the pillars with a rattling crash. Not a new fear, then, but the one he pushes down, deeper than any other. He starts to will his body to let go of the tension, sink back down and return to fretful sleep, and then the remainder of the dream lances through his consciousness like one of those fangs, tearing him open to lay a trail of rotten blood and innards.

Kohanya, taking her eyes from the battle to race to the fallen knight, open tome clutched tight, her other hand reaching out as she gathered aether desperately. Kohanya stumbling as the great wyrm took advantage of her distraction and struck from behind, a claw piercing through her chest, her determined expression flashing to shock, then… empty, as blood as dark as those damnable eyes splattered over the pages of her precious codex, splashed across Aymeric's rapidly paling face, pooled as she fell, one hand outstretched towards the fallen commander. Seeing a flash of stone _through_ her body as the dragon's claw withdrew, leaving her sundered, and Nidhogg's terrible laughter echoed from every direction. In his mind, it seemed that he would be swept from the bridge in a vast waterfall of the blood that deluged from their still forms, be carried away into the void drowning in the very smell and taste of it and - 

Shaking, Estinien curls in on himself, knotting hands into fists, nails biting palms. He dragged in a ragged breath. Another. A third. It was a dream. Not a memory. Not a prediction. Just… a nightmare. A nightmare that chills him to the core in ways he isn't sure he is ready to face, isn't sure he wants to look closely at why the thing he's always feared most, Aymeric lost to the dragons as Ishgard burns, has with the additional presence of the petite scholar on the losing field of battle, become worse. Why the fear has doubled. Swallowing down bile, he shoves his way out of his bedroll, dragging on a shirt and a heavier sweater, and slinks from his tent like a whipped dog, looking for something to calm him. Settle his stomach. Ginger tea. The damned feline had some in her travel bags left by the fire, he could make a cup and… he'd sleep again. He'd not dream that again. 

He rakes a hand back through his hair, finally looking up as he approaches the fire, only to realize there was already someone there. For a split second, he lets himself pretend it is Alphinaud, who will distract him with admiration and enthusiasm, or at least questions that exasperate rather than casually flay him to his bones. Estinien is not that lucky, however. 

A log cracks in two loudly, sending up a rush of sparks, and illuminating the face of the small, soft miqo'te woman, robe wrapped tightly around her curves to keep out the cold, the midnight purple of her hair fading into the night sky and for a rarity missing the braid that always kept just enough away from her face… and eyes of old blood, that lift to his even as Kohanya startles back from the sudden flare of heat, kettle in hand. His gut feels as if someone has packed it with layers of ice and cold, numb and burning all at once, unsure if he is reassured to see her so clearly _alive_ or sickened at the sight of that familiar color that had so recently seemed to wash over everything.

No hope of fleeing now, or pretending other than that he was drawing near, so the dragoon simply clears his throat and stalks closer, the old habit of apparent confidence coming back into his limbs. At least he can look less shaken than he still feels, as much as possible with no armor to hide behind. Her slightly accented voice is quiet, not overly sympathetic, but he can hear the slight humiliating trace of gentle sympathy as Kohanya asks, "Trouble sleeping?"

"A bad dream. I thought a drink would settle me." The dragoon's answer is curt, trying not to invite more questions. When she fills a mug and passes it across to him, Estinien lifts it to find the steam already rising sharp with ginger. His brow furrows a little, surprised at this anticipation of his unspoken thoughts, the breeze tugging at the silver strands of hair that hang shagged around his face. Feline lips curl up in a tired smile, and she turns to dig out another cup.

"Must be a night for it. I can't remember the one I had. I just woke… unsettled. Aching and breathing fast." The scholar's free hand curls for a moment, resting against her breastbone, eyelids shuttering her eyes as her face drawn in concentration. She then shakes her head and shrugs, shakes more ginger into her own cup, and fills it with the remnants of the water. The gesture drives as deeply into Estinien as any lance ever had: that hand, curled as if in pain over where he had just seen her split open, and he can almost see the blood again, see… See a long, healing line on her arm as her sleeve falls back down towards her elbow, not shielded by the gloves she wore in the day, the stark pink of a new scar, where his weapon had caught her as they sparred after setting up camp. She'd been worn down from the day's revelations as well, low on aether after more than a few encounters with hostile draconic forces since, and she had laughed it off when she couldn't heal it away instantly, promising to do so as soon as she'd eaten and retired to bed.

Before he has time to think, he reaches out, striking like a viper, his thick tanned fingers curling around her moon pale wrist and pulling the arm out straight as he shakes the loose sleeve of her robe back. Estinien's deep blue eyes are nearly on fire when the dragoon looks her full in the face again, his rough voice a ragged growl. "You said you could heal this. That it was nothing." His grip tightens, and he can feel the delicate bones of her wrists, pressed too tight under his hand, like a china doll he might break if he does not take care, but the fear, the _anger_ that he'd hurt her badly, been proven the monstrous one that the wrym implied scornfully, mixes in with the lingering distress from his nightmare until his whole being seemed to vibrate with a rage that comes not from loss, but fear and a need to grant protection.

The dragoon sees a breath hitch in her throat, her lips part, pupils spread wide in shadowed eyes in the firelight. Even as he processes the signs, she makes a vain attempt to drag her wrist back, the tones of her growl softer, but that daring is still there, the banked fire she hides under the thoughtful mien she usually wears. "You've been healed by a damned chirurgeon before, _Azure Dragoon_ , you know not every wound disappears without mar, even with their help, especially if you wait too long. Even with my magic. Where did you think all my scars came from, aesthetics?" Her wrist tries to twist again in his grip, and Estinien holds tighter, feeling his breath speed up as hers does. He should let go, he knows he should, but his armor, physical and mental, is gone and it seems like he is nothing but overwhelming emotions encased in a thin shell of flesh, roiling like a storm-churned ocean as he throws his challenge back at her.

"You dress like a Fury damned _matron_ , terrified of the cold. How would I even see if you had any scars?" Which she _does_ , all heavy robes, gloves, high boots, that stupid wide-brimmed hat that shades her face and mostly hides her eyes until they camp, so he can never see her expression unless she tilts her head back. The elezen barks out a harsh laugh. "Although seeing as you're apparently a Twelve's damned masochist, maybe that's why! You and - how is it-!" Estinien manages to swallow his words before he says any more, which feels like choking on burning levin, but he's pretty sure that the general reminders that he needs to _behave yourself_ and _watch your temper in public_ just got broken again. Then her shocked and embarrassed eyes lift to his as she goes still as a trapped bird in his hand, _trusting_ him enough to not outright deny his words and then he _isn't thinking at all_ because if he's going to one hell, he might as well visit them all, and he lunges for her again, dropping his tea, grip shifting to her shoulders, and drags her smaller form to him. Kisses her, if that is even the word for it, demandingly pressing his hard chapped lips against her softer ones, as if with a touch alone he could open a thousand flood gates, somehow make her see or feel all the unbearable weight of _emotions_ scathing his soul, perhaps even take some of it away. In the moment, he becomes all instinct and impulse, the dragon having roared to life in him when she seemed helpless to argue and all he wanted was to _own her_ , to _possess her_ , to _hoard and take and…_

To the shock of the few remaining rational parts of him keeping some tremulous filament of sense, she doesn't shove him away, or scream… she doesn't even go stiff with disgust. Instead, she curls her body into his eagerly, her face tilting up, lips greedy as his pushing back, whispering a breath of his name. Dimly, he's aware there is spilled tea splashed over his pants, and probably her robe. He doesn't care. It seems to take an eternity to find the willpower to pull back, to gain enough control over the sudden inferno that had raged through him, as if he'd stepped full-armored into the fire itself, panting, not just kissed a small woman with bruised lips. It is probably only actually a few heartbeats. Chest heaving, he makes himself drop his grip on her, tries to stand, and pull back, to walk away - _to run away, to hide, to not think about what he's done, to make her forget by never mentioning it again, by acting as if this was a dream too, but he won't forget, oh, Halone, he doesn't think he can ever forget_ \- but before he is more than half-way to his feet, she unfolds onto her own to follow him, smaller fingers interlacing into his and her other hand raising to touch his lips before he can start the apology already forming when he sees her moving. "Estinien. Please. Don't go. Let me - let us - chase the nightmare away together, this time? We are... friends… after all." He hears the slight hitch in her voice at the end, as if she'd wants to say something else, but if he could not face it, why would he ask her to? 

The dragoon nods, not strong enough to resist the idea of her wanting to comfort him, and pulls her back away from the light, then into his tent, leaving the spilled cups by the fire, tea soaking into the dirt. Any uncertainty he might have at the scholar's wish to be there is lost when, by the time he's torn his sweater off and tossed it aside, his glance back over his shoulder finds her tightly lacing up the opening to the tent with unwatched fingers and her gaze on him, raw and hungry as the muscles of his back flex beneath heavily scarred skin. The bottom seems to drop out of his soul and a rushing sound fills his ears, seeing that mirror in intensity, the strange sensation that she is _feeling_ just as much. Estinien's shirt follows his sweater in a mad scramble of limbs, and with a few short steps, he'd closes the gap between them, curling a hand around the nape of the miqo'te healer's neck, having to bend down somewhat, that endless gulf of need swelling that he is always afraid of lurking in him rising to meet her. He knows his voice is rougher than even it's usual gruffness when he questions her. "Did I read you right, kitten? Is that truly what you want, not soft touches and gentle words?" 

He expects to have to wait a few moments for her to decide how brave she really is, then for her to step back, to decide as many have, that the fun of baiting a frenzy is not worth actually enduring it. He is wrong. A touch of pink tongue washes her lower lip, and her low voice is soft, but carries easily to his ears, "You see true. And I knew what I was asking for when I took the hand of a man who was eager to fight a book-wielding mageling and make her bleed." Another man would be embarrassed at the reminder of his earlier mistaken bravado. Estinien, however, feels a strange surge of intense pride and hunger at the realization that Kohanya Chelewae, the Hero of Eorzea, the diplomatic, ladylike, if still widely mistrusted ward of House Fortemps, has not only seen him as a fellow predator, a feral, fighting wild thing… she has been laying bait for it, not to tame, but merely for the pleasure of _seeing_ him. 

The cupped hand at the woman's nape becomes an iron band and Estinien growls eagerly, drags her back with him, onto the bedroll, his lips closing over the miqo'te's in demanding inquiry. And she melts in return, mouth parting, admitting the seeking lance of his tongue, scraping and biting at his lower lip with her teeth as she presses in closer. His free hand fumbles for the clasps to her robe, thoughts flickering at the edge of his mind - _Nidhogg's rage and grief at the loss of a consort - staring at the ruins of Zenith and feeling his view of the world starting to crumble - his fear when they'd sent the two women off alone to face a primal - the day's revelations of the true nature of the war._ Estinien crushes them ruthlessly into the easier to bear heat of instinct by sliding his mouth aside, tasting the skin along his captive's jawline, gliding lower, and then biting down, hard white teeth digging into her skin, denting it, marking it, and he feels her moan, low and rich, and tremble, and he stops needing to worry about trying to think at all, beyond wanting to hear more of those sounds. Kohanya is half-sprawled against him, legs on either side of one of his thighs, and he presses it up, grinding it demandingly against the juncture of her legs, powerful muscles flexing as his hands start to push her robes off of her shoulders. She's making soft, hungry sounds and his mouth keeps moving, sometimes restrained to kisses, but largely peppering her shoulders with bites and nips, pulling the skin into his mouth. Estinien can see that he's leaving marks in his wake, red dents and bruises blooming against pale skin, but her heavy garb will no doubt hide it, and after seeing he left a scar on her arm like a brand, what harm in a few souvenirs of lust?

The arcanist's hands tangle into his hair, trying to push his face lower, and he smirks, pausing with his hands at her elbows, the robe fallen down enough to bare her breasts, but not off yet. "Greedy little thing. I want to see all of you, first." Her face is flushed, and Estinien's mouth waters slightly as the short woman nods and lets go, leaning back enough to help strip off her robe, undergarments following it quickly. She moves to straddle his leg again, and he stops her with a lifted hand, eyes roving her form hungrily, seeing the flickers of dim candlelight over her skin, the lush curves of her usually shrouded form. Dropping his hand, he touches a patch of shiny skin on the outside of one thigh, lifting his brows as he feels the differing texture, the places where one flesh seems to become another.

"Ifrit. I couldn't remove all the burns before my aether ran out." She shifts a little as his long-fingered, battle-roughened hands glide over her body, exploring further, and whenever he stops to linger on a discovered mar or dent, she chronicles the cause. It's not erotic, precisely, in the typical sense, but it's deeply _personal_ , this chance to map and learn and remember something of what she leaves hidden, to guide her to offer up tiny scraps of the secrets of her past. Until he touches a spot on her shoulder, just below one of his bites, and even in the darkness, he can see her skin flush with emotion. He waits, eyes locked onto her face in silent demand. After a few seconds, she lets out her breath in a rush, then mumbles in a rapid mess, "I-fell-out-of-a-tree. I was a child once too, you know." It startles a laugh out of him, rough and low, and the embarrassed honesty of it warms him in a different way as he tugs her back to him, mouth brushing over the old scar that means no more than a fellow mortal's childhood clumsiness, tasting it. As she settles to straddle his lap, he shifts his grip to her hips, pressing her down til he can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of his pants. This time, he doesn't stop her as her hands pull at him, one tangled in hair, one curled around his shoulder, and tilts his head to capture the lifted pebble of one nipple, nipping almost delicately at it for the joy of feeling it make her buck against the hard length of him. Every second as he teases her is a struggle between the desire to stretch out this moment as much as possible, and the increasing desire roaring through him to demand more. Then she gives a particularly lovely wriggle when his mouth drags across her chest to the other side, and he actually feels the throb of need run through her sex where she's nestled against his own.

With a low growl, Estinien rolls, pinning the slighter form of the miqo'te warrior under him. He presses his knees between hers, opening her, one hand delving between their twined forms and her parted thighs to explore. She's as slick and wet with eagerness as he could have hoped, and he drags callused fingers along the sides of her clit, waiting til she's panting until he replaces them with a thumb and curls his hand just _so_ , the tip of his finger slipping up and inside of her, lost in _heat_ and _slick_ and _pressure_. Her own fingers claw furrows at his skin, knot around strands of hair, and he watches her face for any sign he goes too far, does too much. If he is honest, he has been a little concerned, given the height difference between their races, but the ease with which she accepts it emboldens him, and he starts to rock his hand even as he captures the arcanist's mouth once more. Doing so muffles her soft whimpers of pleasure, but he can hear them well enough, feel the increased pace of her ragged breaths mingling with his when he adds a second finger, gently pressing them apart to leverage against the inner walls of her channel as he curls them up, then repeats the gesture, again and again, more roughly as her responses and his own starts to pitch higher. Kohanya's fingers are scrambling at his back, trying to pull him closer, and she finally gets a good grip and digs her nails into his bottom and whimpers, her lips against his, "Please, Estinien, I need you."

He's already struggling to kick out of his pants, not at all inclined to wait further at the sweetness of that pleading. Hands curling to lift her hips, he presses his exposed shaft against her slickened folds. For a few moments, he just rocks against her, twisting down to claim her mouth as he spreads the slipperiness, then he reaches one hand to the joining of her legs, guiding himself to the opening of her cunt. His intent is to be slow, careful, but his body betrays him, the dragon riding him too strong when that first tight clasp of heat around the tip of his prick is felt, and her legs curl to wrap around his back. Biting off a curse, he finds himself plunging in too fast, not bottoming out, but deeper than he meant to go in a single push. The sound she makes is ragged, sharp, but thank the light, not solely one of pain, and when he stills with concern, her grip on him tightens, urging to keep going.

Estinien shudders, turns to hide his face in her hair, breathing in honeysuckle and cinnamon soap and the faint, animal scent that is purely her own, the warmth of his cheek rubbing against hers, managing to keep a little restraint for the next few lunges of his hips, trying to stretch her to fully take his width and length gradually. _By the fury, she's so tight, so close around him!_ Then sharp teeth graze over his own throat, and even if her voice is roughened, there's no mistaking the demand in it, Kohanya breathing against his skin, "Let yourself go, I want _you_." He's heard those words, or their near kin, from only one before, and it all but shatters his heart open. Gathering the miqo'te tight with one arm, the other bracing against the bedroll, he slams himself home into the tight clasp of her depths. Perhaps, for the next few minutes, he becomes more dragon than man, riding her with a desperation and need sharpened to a cutting edge, lost in a maddening haze of movement, heat, sweat, the press and drag of lips or teeth, the clutch of her body around his. She is moving with him, fluttering and trembling, hot enough to make the chill night banished, sounds wet and breathless, animal and half-coherent pleadings spilling from her mouth as her hips grind against his movements, encouraging, begging, as lost in the feral need to merge into one another, to meld, to try and break down the barriers between bodies and souls. When at last, with one well-angled dragging thrust, she is undone, and buries her cry of climax by sinking teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, he gasps and follows in a set of short, quick jerks and then the sudden white-hot flash of apex as he spills within her. In completion, he sags down against arcanist and bedroll both, shifting just enough to protect her from the bulk of his weight, trying to delay the moment where he will have to withdraw as long as he can. Even once he does, she does not move away, but settles tiredly against his side, and he lets himself slip back into sleep as he clasps her near, finally sure the nightmare will stay at bay at least for the rest of this night.


	6. Winding Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A respite before battle means a chance to emotionally proc- No, wait, it doesn't, we forgot who all is around here. But it means that there is a little breathing room, a little time to see deeper into the lay of the land before charging on. This one is SFW, darlings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We also have a rare treat here; a perspective shift. Yes, really, it can't be all Estinien howling all the time. Chapter begins in his PoV, but after the ****, we step into more properly controlled waters and get to see a bit of Aymeric's mind.

When dawn starts to lighten the walls of the tent, he shakes her shoulder gently to wake her, even as he found himself already mourning the loss of the warmth of her body molded to his side. Sleeping next to anyone is a rare pleasure for him. After blinking awake, Kohanya yawns and sit, starting to re-confine the outer edges of her hair into its normal pulled back braid, and he braces himself for her return, like all comrades-in-arm he's spent a night with before, to carefully studied and distant friendship now that the wild need of night is past. After she finishes with her hair and starts hunting for the scattered pieces of her garb, pulling on smallclothes and then robe, Estinien feels his heart sinking at the idea. Sitting up, he reaches for his own abandoned smalls, and tries not to openly watch her through silvered lashes in these last few intimate moments. As she finishes fastening her robe closed and smoothing her hair down, he looks away to spare himself the view of her departure, only to be surprised by lightly roughened fingertips under his chin tilting his face up. 

Kohanya is smiling, a little shy, but not at all distant, and when her lips find his, it is not a professional or dutiful buss, but a lingering, heated press, mouth lightly parted against his own and with the faintest hint of fang at the very end. Dimly, he feels a slight throb from the bruised marks those teeth left in his shoulder. He suddenly remembers the words she murmured in his arms, 'I want  _ you _ ' and feels the truth in them as more than just a way to draw out all of his need in the tumbling. She then straightens, fingertips sliding along his jawline before falling away, and turns, unlacing the tent and slipping outside. In her wake, his veins vibrate with the realization of what this might mean, and the lingering feeling like fire where she touched him.

\-----

Of course, any lingering pleasant feelings get quickly squashed by high, chilly winds, sparking lightning, and the utterly exhausting experience of seeming to find another moogle every few yalms insisting on their help with a ridiculous task. Fairly soon, Estinien is dreaming of fur-lining his armor, and regretting that he's sure that if he dares to actually  _ say _ this both of his companions will be aghast. It'd almost be worth it, but he's more than disciplined enough to know better than to start a fight on the way to a wyrm's den. Beyond that, the group feels… strangely lopsided, without the heretic there. Too quiet, which is not something he thought he would ever think.

They do track down the lair, far to the north and east. By that point, even with night still a ways off, they're all sore and irritable, and the fact that the Aery proves to be unapproachable in their present state is a distinct exasperation. Not to mention that the whole time, he can  _ feel _ Nidhogg's emotions wearing against him like acid, chewing away at the thin flesh of comfort he had stumbled upon. The agreement that they will seek out an alternate means of ingress and he can take a brief chance to prepare is accepted willingly, despite his having to confirm to Alphinaud that he won't try and do something alone.  _ Stupid, fretting nursemaid of a boy… _

Everything is spiraling in, like a hunting hawk on a rabbit, and between the revelations and the pleasant shock of the night before, he's more than happy to return to Ishgard and distract himself, to try and settle things so that when they strike, he has as much hold over himself as possible.

*****

On the return to the adventuring party to the city, and their need to seek assistance from the Ironworks in reaching the Aery, Aymeric finds, not at all to his surprise, that Estinien has invited himself to his manor to wait. That first night, as the Azure Dragoon sketches out what they have learned in broad terms, leaving the formal meeting for later, he insists on describing Mistress Chelewae as possessing eyes like spilled blood. It seems an unkind comparison, and one that keeps getting made once it's obvious it bothers the Lord Commander, who would mind it less if his dragoon did not look haunted when he says it. Aymeric tries to argue the matter, plying Estinien first with a wine he maintains matches the hue quite well. Estinien laughs at him and drinks the bottle, then leaves the empty sitting prominently on the mantle. Worse, he forbids the servants from moving it, so that every time the Lord Commander passes through that room, the sight taunts him. 

The next night, hoping that the likening to something less transient in nature will temper the dragoon's increasing snarl as he waits to act, Aymeric brings him a faceted garnet ring he found in the house's coffers, showing him the glow of the stone in the firelight. "Garnet, then, Estinien. A bit cold, perhaps, but the color is right. A better fit than 'heart's blood', for a pure-hearted woman."

Estinien nearly howls with laughter, one tanned and long-fingered hand plucking the ring from Aymeric's grip. Shamelessly, he slides it onto his hand, admiring it. "A pure-hearted woman? No more than you are, bastard. She is too, incidentally. Has she admitted that to you yet?"

Aymeric hesitates. It is hard not to be curious, but there's something off in Estinien's matter, an evasiveness that he hasn't seen there before, something beyond the comfortably familiar way he talks of his comrade-in-arms. He wants to just dismiss it as tension in the knowledge that the long-waited confrontation is so near at hand, but… The Lord Command demures instead of asking more, his cheeks warming, "I do not see why Mistress Chelewae would have told me either about how… pure she is by your standards, nor seen necessary to tell me of her parentage." A slight hesitation. "I assumed they were… with Thal."

For a moment, the dragoon's face darkens, and Aymeric remembers him as a younger man, willing, even eager, to defend his friend's honor. There is something of the same mien about him in that instant. Then Estinien's hand falls to his lap, and his face shifts to boredom, other than the touch of a smug smile. "No. Not really. And Aymeric?"

"Yes?"

"I'm keeping the ring as payment for giving your little infatuation that morsel of information to taunt you. But they're still the color of a pierced heart."

He doesn't argue with the first part… after all, it's rare enough to get Estinien to take a gift and that he's actually wearing something that came from Aymeric, for whatever irrational reason, is quietly warming. And less quietly, confusing.  _ What makes this object, this moment, different…  _ The suspicion comes then, that combined with that hint of smugness, the strange feeling that the dragoon is being less open than usual, and he begins to suspect he may not be the only person in the household with what Estinien calls an  _ infatuation _ .

\-----

Leaning forward, his hands steepled together, Aymeric studies the informant sitting across the desk from him. After Estinien's taunting comment, he'd sought more information, beyond the somewhat disjointed snippets they had uncovered behind the Scions' arrival. To his surprise, it takes only til late the next afternoon before he is told that someone has come with more knowledge for the files. The elezen woman is elderly, dressed in practical but well made clothing. His secretary has informed him that she had been in their employ for many years, but the Lord Commander is certain he's never met her before. Then again -- 

"Wishing to make a report in person is most unusual, Mistress Valpard. Would it overstep if I asked what motivated you?"

Squaring her shoulders, the woman meets his gaze steadily, and Aymeric makes sure his expression was still light and congenial. When she answers, her words are simple. "I don't normally wonder or care what you need my information for. But my Lord… she's a good woman."

_ Ah. _ Aymeric felt his face softening, and in this instance, he lets that gentler side show through, rather than hiding it in his usual diplomatic calm. "I promise, I have no intent or desire to harm the Warrior of Light. This is simply to be prepared in case someone else is not so wise."

He must be convincing, thank the Fury, since he is being honest, and the woman nods. "Forgive me, but here in Ishgard, I am going to assume you don't know much about the Keepers of the Moon."

"Not that I'd trust to not be rumor or myth." Aymeric admits, slightly embarrassed at that fact. He had made an effort far beyond most of his peers to learn about his new allies, but the Warrior of Light's people were surprisingly inactive in politics, and there were so many others who were, consuming what little time he had. 

"I'm glad you're aware of that much. Your question, my Lord, was a foolish one. There is no such thing as 'bastard' child to the Keepers of the Moon. They do not wed like our people do. The womenfolk live in family lines or groups of close families, while the men wander. A single woman often has multiple men who visit at different times." The informant shifted, and Aymeric was put uncomfortably in mind of certain humiliating talks had with his mother as he'd neared his adolescent years. "The family name Chelewae is an old and respected one among them, but it's also large, so it took some effort to know for sure which branch she came from... Or it would have if half the Shroud hasn't been gossiping about it since Garuda first appeared in recent memory. It appears that her mother was a younger daughter, considered weak, who was maimed in a hunt when still a girl. She was not considered… suitable to have children because she wasn't a proper warrior. One way or another, she did anyway. My understanding is that the naming goes to the oldest female of the family, and the fact that Kohanya's name is a long one for a Keeper was meant to show that she was expected to be weak. An embarrassment."

Puzzle pieces began to slide into place in Aymeric's mind. Against Estinien's claims, then, not a bastard, but more akin to a poor cousin, taken in on sufferance, and made to dance attendance to the whims of the more powerful branch of the family. He takes care to ensure that his wince at the idea stays internal, letting no hint of it ruffle his face. He'd seen that play out more than once among the noble houses, and it was never pleasant for the family outcast.

Mistress Valpard glances down at her hands. "Her relationships with family were apparently poor, and her mother passed away from complications related to the old wound a few years back. Immediately after, Mistress Chelewae left home to make her own way, taking on study as an academic, then beginning to pursue arcane arts. Rumor says her family is shocked at her emergence as a figure of repute, and there is no indication there is contact between them and her, or her father, whoever he was."

Aymeric shifts a piece of paper, scratching a small note on the edge. "So there is no reason to expect them to become an issue, or even an aspect of her life, in all likelihood. Unfortunate, for her sake, but useful to know. Thank you."

  
After the informant leaves, he allows himself a little time - all he can spare, unfortunately - to turn the information over in his head, wondering.  _ Why does her being either estranged or disinherited from her family matter so much to Estinien that he wanted me to know it? _ In truth, if the information had been brought up via another channel, he'd have seen it as someone searching for ways that the Warrior could be more strongly bound to their cause, as he has seen how quickly she's taken to Fortemps as their ward, and vice versa.  _ A way to imply potential loyalty or trustworthiness to Ishgard? That seems… overly political for Estinien. _ Even once he returns to more mundane paperwork, the question idly gnaws at the edge of his mind.


	7. Knitting Fingers Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As fated confrontations loom near, some reach to hold more firmly, to prove trust, and others hold on like a maiden holding the token of her love gone to war.
> 
> Here there be explicit m/m slash and sexual contact, and relationships that are a little akilter, not bad, but perhaps not being their best selves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All from Estinien's PoV. I beg a little patience with any awkwardness; I have not written slash before this, but here I am, and everyone involved seem to think it was important to make it onto the page. Or perhaps I'm just a sin elemental too. Either is fair. Still, walk through the gentler barbs piercing the heart, and there it is.

As Estinien rounds the corner towards Aymeric's study, there's a flash of white and pink-orange out of the corner of his eye and a dismayingly familiar sound like laughter or displaced air or… Or a damn _moogle_ but there shouldn't be any in Ishgard… When he turns more fully, however, all he finds is an envelope propped atop a table, sealed with a drop of bright red wax, into which has been impressed… A very, very small hand print? He stares at it for a long moment, uncomprehending, until he notices his own name scrawled below it in an angular hand. He's seen more than a few margins scribbled with it recently. Bemused, the dragoon takes the letter and proceeds into the study, turning it over to look at more closely. It occurs to him, finally, that the 'seal' is probably the hand print of Kohanya's fairy familiar, which is, as far as he knows, unique. 

Settling himself down onto the chaise with a scatter-limbed sprawl, he pries the seal upwards, unfolding the letter within. He can _feel_ Aymeric's eyes on him from his desk, but that was part of the fun. If he's going to actually get mail, let his host suffer a little bit of curiosity while he puzzles through it himself. The words within are short and direct, more so than he might have expected given the presumed author.

**I've returned to the city. Alphinaud will be here tomorrow, and we've arranged transport. I may owe you an explanation of what we've been dealing with.**

**Corner room at the Forgotten Knight, after the seventh bell. I'll pay for drinks.**

Estinien refolds the paper, considers, then pries the seal free and sets it to the side before he uncoils himself to toss the paper into the fire. He's stopped just short of it by Aymeric quietly clearing his throat behind him, and he indulges in an unseen grin, marking it down on a mental tally. _Couldn't resist asking in the end, could you._ Glancing back over his shoulder, face neutral again, he lightly wags the sheet. "My allies, or some of them, are back. Want to fill me in a little before we presumably make a formal report to you."

Aymeric's voice is quiet and contained, but there's a slightly tense thread in it. He recognizes the poor odds of success in reaching for the letter, and may well be too polite anyway, but the shorter knight does pad back to where Estinien had left the seal, picking it up and balancing it on his fingertips. "Interesting. I didn't know they were aware of where you were staying Ishgard. That's unusually open of you." So polite, but still a thrust of the blade, and one that lands, the Azure Dragoon frowning at the realization.

"I… did not, actually. The letter appeared, possibly with the assistance of… nature spirits." There, that's a polite word for them, right? Estinien hunches his shoulders slightly, voice a defensive rumble, and he reaches to retrieve the seal. "I will tell you what she says, if that's what you wish." He tries to regain a little of the upper hand, adding in a mutter, "Or what she's wearing, if you're just looking for excuses to dream."

The gentle reproach in the Lord Commander's gaze is worse than him fighting back would have been. "You are being unkind." He simply waits, ice blue eyes on Estinien, letting them cool with his hurt, and it doesn't take but a moment til their taller man squirms internally and looks away, one hand scraping hair away from his face.

"I should go, the time is soon enough. I'll return after." 

\-----

He didn't need a warning to be discreet. Forgoing his usual armor, he leaves on his simple layers for the household, trousers and boots, laced shirt and a light doublet. Going out does mean supplementing with a heavy cloak of deep blue, and gloves, enough to further obscure. Rather than go into the inn, he works his way to the nearby parapets and waits, watching the windows in the indicated room. When a form appears, clad in the expected gown and hood, appears outlined against it, he hesitates only long enough to be sure she's too damned short to be anyone but herself. She might hide the ears and tails, but that? No. It's but a matter of a moment's thought, or instinct, to make the jump to the thin ledge, to tap and open the window. 

She whirls, and he allows himself a brief grin as she hurries past him to close the windows again, then stoke up the fire. When Kohanya speaks, her voice is soft, pitched to carry to him, but no further. "I'd wondered how you were planning to be subtle. Better than me." She straightens, unclasping the cloak and throwing it over one of the chairs. With a slight lift of a pointed chin, the miqo'te indicates a tray on the table. On it rests a bottle of mulled wine, and a smaller one of brandy. She pours for herself from the first, then looks across back to him. Estinien shrugs. Filling a second glass, she returns, handing it to him before sinking to sit by the fire. There's no way not to notice the tension in her form, despite her surprisingly comfortable movement in the formal Ishgardian gown, the deep gray hue casting chill tones onto her pale skin. Much of him is already bracing for regret or dismissal when she starts to speak, and he sinks down into the chair nearby, sipping his wine more slowly than her own nervous gulps, and forces himself to listen.

"I don't know how much you understand behind why the Scions came to Ishgard… or rather, why Alphinaud and I did. But if we're to fight your oldest enemy together, I would feel… dishonest, being less than open with a friend." _Oh. Not a rejection, then but a… Self-dossier? Strategic sharing of intelligence?_ Her face lifts, watching him, a few strands of midnight-purple bisecting her bloody-minded gaze. "The stories here are all of the hero. Instead, you need to hear about the fools, and the optimists, and the cowards, fleeing in terror." She begins to spin the story, of treacherous politics, of a young man trying to form a model shield against the world. Of betrayal of friends new and old, of knives in the backs of those who could not be turned, of poison and terror and being told, again and again, to run, to let someone else risk death to cover your back. Of isolation and allies who refuse to stand for you, bound by the limits of politics and society. By the time she is finished, the goblet has been emptied, more than once, Estinien having moved to refill it for her each time. She's moved closer as well, although she is curled in on herself, sitting now an arm's length or so away, her knees curled up, shoulders hunched, tail nestled near against her legs like a beaten dog. Impressively, to him, as someone who also does their best to hide feelings, her eyes shine dully, but she has kept the tears unshed. The dragoon reaches out to stroke her hair and ears as he would have to calm and distract her when they were traveling the wilds, and it's not until doing so draws forth a shaky breath from the scholar and she scoots closer, almost leaning against his legs, that he fully understands that she both needs and desires for his understanding and reassurance, and the idea of that is difficult to even fully wrap his mind around. There's a moment of conflict, between discomfort at the open admission of emotions and the desire to reach out, and he thinks of her fingertips on his chin the other day, warm and rough, and the promise of another true friend. Awkward and hesitant, he leans down slightly, resting one elbow against the far knee from her, then curls his hand around her head, feeling strangely protective, and pulls her to lean against his leg. Kohanya closes her eyes and presses her face into his thigh, still for a few moments but for warm breaths that seem to mist right through his trousers. Very slightly, he bites down on his lower lip, refusing to acknowledge this as he gently strokes her hair. 

Estinien can't even begin to figure out how to actually say words of comfort, so he's grateful that mere presence ends up seeming to be balm enough, as after a span of quiet minutes, she straightens up enough to offer him a wan smile. The scholar's voice is still soft, but she's picking the threads of her facade back up. "My apologies. I just felt… as I said. If you want to trust me at your back with Nidhogg, it feels more fair to know my, our, recent failures." 

Without the boy here, there's no urge to jab at Alphinaud… truthfully, after the tale, he even feels a bit sorry for the lad, not that he'd say that out loud. Instead, he gives a slight shake of his head, hair jerking with the motion, and says gruffly, "You don't control what you're ordered to do, or if your comrades are trustworthy when you're assigned to them. All soldiers learn that." It's a strange thought, that the great Warrior of Light is actually just a soldier, too, in the end, bound by duty and loyalty and moved around the board as much as any other tool by those with the power of manipulating people. It's an old, familiar, painful chord of the chorus, and it draws him to shift, offering her both of his hands for a moment. "I trust you no less for this, kitten. We will succeed." When she takes the hands, he draws her to him, pulling her to stretch up enough to hug close for a brief moment. This time, the lightness of her lips brushing against his when she fully stands after is like an expected whisper in the ear, a quiet personal secret shared. 

"I imagine I shouldn't keep you… we will need to be rested. You will come to the Manor in the morning to fetch us?" Her face tilts to follow as he stands as well, and he gives a slight nod of acknowledgement. They begin the process of re-cloaking and preparing to pass without notice, and Kohanya is almost to the door before he gives in to impulse, clearing his throat awkwardly. Hands already half-pulling her hood up to flatten her ears, the scholar looks to him curiously. A quick stride closes the distance, and he cups hands over her cheeks, tilting her face up just a little more, stealing one last kiss, pressed harder than hers had, leaving the slightest bruised feel of him on her lips. Not knowing how to say that he recognizes the trust she's giving him, or her nervousness, or… not really knowing what he's doing at all, because this is _so_ different, he at least makes sure that when he turns to go, it's with a wordless promise.

\-----

When he returns to the manor, it's still and dark. It would be easiest to assume that everyone is asleep, to settle into the guest room he usually takes and rest. Easy, yes, but Aymeric's voice rings in his mind from earlier, chastising him for being _unkind_. So, instead, he seeks out the other set of all too familiar chambers, gently easing the knob open. The room beyond is overly opulent to his tastes, but better than many, and he is sure that he is supposed to believe that the coverlet covered form with their back to him is fast asleep. Except, of course, that he both knows Aymeric far too well for that, and even if he didn't, no one ever sleeps with their back that stiff.

Not bothering to keep quiet, he crosses the room and sits down on the near edge of the bed, unlacing and discarding boots, socks and shirt following to the middle of the floor. When that finally draws a shift next to him and a grumpy sound, he smiles unseen. _First point_.

"I know I have asked you, repeatedly, to not treat the floor as a hamper, Estinien. If you're going to wake me, at least be kind enough to change quickly and put things away so I can get back to my rest."

While normally it might be fun to poke further, riling the (un)sleeping bear, Estinien is _trying_ to be kind right now. He glances back over his shoulder, trusting the faint glow of the banked fire to illuminate his expression enough to show his smile. "You haven't rested yet, no matter what you claim. But I'll pick up and you can be nosy." As he expects, by the time he's more properly corralled his clothing and changed to a pair of loose sleep pants, Aymeric has turned to watch him, expression embroidered with affection and a touch of guilt.

Sliding under the covers, the dragoon lets his commander pull him close, wrap arms around him, and settles against the other man's slightly shorter and broader form with a quiet breath out. This might not be _acceptable_ , but it is familiar and comfortable all the same, a role he has learned how to play, a hidden power that contains him even when he's a howling storm. He is still trying to sort out the words to use when the knight speaks instead, a gentler tone now, with an embarrassment in it that nearly makes him squirm for all it's only second-hand. "I should not have snapped earlier. I am unaccustomed to being jealous of you being able to spend time with… having the indulgence of… someone I want to do the same for me."

Leaning his head against Aymeric's, letting soft black and thicker silver intertwine, he suggests wryly, "Maybe you should try being less polite and go for disastrously awkward, like I did." A slight pause, then he adds, voice quieter again, "You are forgiven. I do not want… I would not… My loyalty is always yours, no matter if someone else has made some small claim." The words twist and feel like shards in his mouth; he does not know what to call either of these holds they have on him, the draw like magnets to the pole, but while he wants _her_ safe, he can still imagine nothing he wants or needs more than keeping _him_ from feeling he's been left alone. 

Aymeric's response pierces Estinien like a thorn, the slight hint of uncertainty in his voice when he asks, "Would you forgive me for being a beast and wanting to remind myself of your loyalty, my friend?" A breath hisses in between his teeth, hitching, drawing the scent of sandalwood and amber resin. It's easier to nod his head than to answer, to shift down ever so slightly, to tilt his face to offer his lips, press in close. 

He expects to be kissed hard, but this is beyond even that; Aymeric seems like he's going to devour him, that small invitation enough that the broader man half-rolls, bracing arms on either side of his leanness, and he presses down, lips parting, tongue darting in demand, then pressing in, exploring with long, slow strokes. Estinien can imagine what he tastes, the wine, surely, but part of him wonders, too, if the cinnamon-spiced edge of her aether lingers on his lips, if the lord can taste that too… even if he weren't being kissed to take his breath away, he'd never dare to ask. He tells himself that he doesn't whimper in response to the eager lips on his, doesn't hold his breath when Aymeric shifts further, straddling his hips now so he can press even more into the kiss. 

His ears definitely pick up the low sound made in the base of Aymeric's throat, not quite a growl, not quite a grumble, and that perfect mouth finally leaves his, leaves him breathless and sucking for air as it shifts to nip at earlobes, along his jawline, down to his neck, hot air breathing his name over his skin. It's dizzying, the sheer _power_ of that focus, of possessiveness, even before it's paired with firm teeth scraping over the line of his pulse, digging into the corded muscles of his shoulder. Estinien hisses sibilantly and knots his hands into the whisper-fine strands of his dark-haired lover's hair, giving a slight tug as he tries to warn, "You know she will see and ask me if you leave marks, sooner or later." In other moods, they should both care. This one, however, apparently does not allow for such niceties, because he can feel those lips curve roguishly before the bastard _bites_ down again, harder this time, and _sucks_ and for fuck's sake, there's no question now he's going to have a bruise blooming on his shoulder like a midnight blossom.

Affecting a long-suffering sigh, the dragoon gentles his hands a little, more stroking than pulling now, tracing down to feel at the edge of ears. Restraint is still far from his partner's mind, though, as he feels a wide hand palm him through the soft fabric of his sleep garb, half-curling to cup warmth over the straining fabric and enfold him. Even through that faint shielding, he can feel the roughness of familiar sword calluses, the pattern of hard and softness almost as well-known as his own hand. Unbidden, Estinien feels his hips twist, pressing him up to work against that claiming touch, pushing into it in offering of body and self. He knows his face is flushed by now, can feel the heat of it burning along his skin. 

The grip of that hand around him shifts, sliding a few times, but quickly, fingers hook into a waistband instead, dragging down demandingly. Trying not to hiss with need at the fabric pulling along sensitive skin, the dragoon's hands tighten again, his gaze falling to Aymeric's face. He doesn't need to see the hand closing around his shaft when he can _feel_ it, but he would dearly regret not seeing the instant that angelic face lights with possessive hunger as _he_ watches it, the low, breathy rumble of a heartfelt " _Mine,_ " as the knight's thumb grazes a circle around the rim of his crown, flickers up, briefly almost a delicate ghosting, smoothing a trickle of pre after it's wake. Icy blue eyes suddenly lift and catch him watching and Estinien can see the flash of humor in them at catching his open admiration, and pride as well, and without a word being said, he shudders at the smug joy his old friend _radiates_ at being able to undo him so easily.

Lips descend to claim his again, softer now, but only in contrast as the hand curled around his cock finds a comfortable grip, starts to glide in slow, steady strokes, letting the looser skin ease the movement. Devouring lips serve quite well to muffle the way his breath hitches and the ragged, needy little sounds from the back of his throat. At first, he's allowed to move as he will, hips twisting and pushing into that grip, but gradually, Aymeric's thighs outside of his close in, and the sturdier man's weight settles more heavily to his legs, and he's effectively pinned, unable to do anything but pant and _whine_ and enjoy the pace as it's set. Or not set, really; there's no question that he's being toyed with, teeth dragging at his lower lip when that broad grip works him quickly, then as it softens to a whisper, or worse, wanders off entirely, stroking down to softer skin below, grazing over his thighs when the kiss softens into something no less demanding but still tender, dragging him again and again til he thinks he will surely break, then stepping back. 

Distantly, he's absurdly grateful he's never been the sort of person who _begs_ , because if he was, he _would_ , and he doesn't think he could bear knowing it. Finally, Aymeric is merciful, and when he can feel the muscles in his thighs almost spasming with desperate need, this time, his beloved lord doesn't pull back, but keeps his hand on the shuddering length of him, caressing, teasing, and then guiding him into a wildly bucking climax that leaves him dripping sticky heat. Estinien starts to fall back, panting, to recover, as the kiss breaks, then he hears the ragged sound of Aymeric's breathing and he slits his eyes only to catch the moment that the dark haired man frees his own aching length and starts to wildly work over it with his still slickened hand. _Oh._ He can feel Aymeric's free hand brace against the mattress next to his head, fingers twisting into the disarrayed silver fall of his hair, the lord's body mantled over his like a hunting hawk over its trophy, a divine beauty with a degenerate intent. It's only the matter of a few breaths before there's a long, shuddering moan that he thinks he'll hear in his dreams, and there's another wash of warmth over his belly. Shoulders shaking, the knight holds that pose a little longer, then almost boneless now in the aftermath, he shifts to the side, sinks down to rest against sweat-soaked skin and sheets. 

  
Drawn and wearied now as well, Estinien shifts, letting his head pillow against Aymeric's, letting the simple physical nearness and silent affection stand for all the things he would struggle to even attempt to put into words. Sleep pulls at him, a draw far more demanding than questions like self-reflection, uncertainty at how he can feel so _intensely_ but so _differently_ around two people, then even his worries about what he will face all too soon. For now, he rests, breathing in sweat and musk and his senses utterly full of his oldest, dearest comfort.


	8. Stuck in the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Aery, or getting what you think you want doesn't always end so well in Coerthas.

In the morning, as promised, Estinien heads to Manor Fortemps early to retrieve the Warrior and her young lordling companion, or perhaps commander. Alphinaud would probably argue the title, but he's seen it the certainty in the youth, and the way that the scholar bends to his direction with the familiarity of old ranks. After confirming their successful location of a solution to reach the Aery, he makes the suggestion that it's past time to bring Ser Aymeric out of the dark, and stoically avoids the moment when Kohanya shoots him a look under the waved brim of her hat that suggests she doesn't believe that's true for an instant, dark lashes shading her bloody eyes. At least the other one is more reasonable.

Aymeric is not reasonable. Maybe he shouldn't have said how glad he was to have the Warrior of Light fighting next to him, knowing that still extant bit of jealousy, but… Thankfully, before he can groan or react otherwise rudely, blessed Lucia is quick to gently correct and remind her Commander of his duties to the city. _Someone_ has to be the sensible, non-bloodthirsty one here, and as always, he can trust her to keep Aymeric's safety foremost in mind. Wherever she came from, the woman is an absolute gift to Ishgard. Halone knows he would never have done well serving as the Lord Commander's external voice of reason like she has. Having had the chance to restrain his first impulse, Estinien follows up by reminding the Lord Commander of all the things only he is positioned to do, that changing their roles would not end well. _Let the soldiers be soldiers, my friend._ When Alphinaud also has to be dissuaded, at least more easily, it's a further weariness. _Brave and stupid commanders, both._

He'd thought her quiet restraint through the whole tiring matter proof of comfort in her assigned role, but as they walk the stone streets towards the Skysteel Manufactory, Kohanya murmurs, "You're better at being an officer than you think. You said you were harsh with Alphinaud, but truly, you helped discourage both of them in a way that let them preserve pride while still ensuring they didn't run headlong into danger. It was nicely done." The shock of it almost makes him trip over a rough-edged cobblestone when he leans his head to give her a horrified look under his visor. Sure enough, that very slight smile is clinging to her lips.

"... No more than was necessary. Are you ready?" Even the minute smile fades away into quiet determination and the scholar gives a slight nod. After that, talking seems fairly pointless.

\----

When they reach the Aery, he can feel Nidhogg's eternal, smoldering sea of rage even before _he_ appears in truth, the approach immersing himself slowly in boiling blood. They knew it was a risk, but he still finds himself cursing viciously when the dragon comes for the manacutters and he's knocked off course.

At the height of the Aery, he waits, the Eye gripped tightly in hand, all of his will focused on keeping Nidhogg distracted and at bay til Kohanya can find him. He thinks he hears her, sometimes, in the distance, or at least, he hears the sounds of surging magic and draconic beings screaming in pain. He at least hopes all those screams of pain are draconic… he believes he'd know hers, that it would resonate with something deep within him, but he can not be sure. Estinien doesn't know how long he waits for her to reach him to be sure, minutes or bells, but he thinks it must be closer to the first. It is a rare luck that he has held Nidhogg at bay this long, when all they both want is to clash and rend one another, til one lives and the other lies broken. When he hears footsteps on the stairs behind him, they are too soft, too light to be anything bestial and he knows he was right; she has made it here, to him, and she can still fight. That has to be enough.

Even better, when she steps forward enough that he can see her, she is whole and well, despite splatters of ichor and blood on clothes and skin, moving as if bruised, but no worse. Stepping past him, Kohanya weaves aether the way he swings his lance, all fluid brutality, wraps protection and twists curses with equal ease, tearing with her magic as viciously as a dragon's claws, bloodying Nidhogg, weakening him. When the great wrym returns to the skies to prepare a massive blow of magic to flatten them and he struggles to pull the Eye's power into aegis enough to shield them both, she steps between him and draconic minions, again and again, darting on light feet and spinning through spells like spooling wool, then sprinting back to his side, refreshing the chilling warmth of her aetheric shield wrapped around him. When the Eye's bubble of strength finally snaps into place around them, the scholar's own protections layer under and over it, weaving thread upon thread til the strength that should have left them both smears of bone and blood passes unheeded.

When the ancient dragon is finally stilled and weakened and he can give in to that urge that's been gnawing away at his spine, when he can _leap_ and _stab_ and finally, finally _fight_ , it is, at least briefly, indescribably glorious. Violence and physicality and no need for thought, just pitting his body and will against his oldest enemy, knowing an ally has his back, and for a brief second as he pierces Nidhogg's remaining eye and plucks it forth he wants to howl, to scream, to _laugh_ his triumph. Yet the instant the eye is free and he really _sees_ it and more importantly _senses_ it, he knows something is wrong. This orb is not the crimson of blood and rage, and while it is all but pickled in hatred and resentment, the new eye he grips has a strange core of regret. 

When Kohanya sees it, she staggers as if its very presence attacks her. He thinks, at first, that she has somehow been wounded dearly and hid it, but almost immediately, her small body straightens, and she licks her lips. "I am unharmed, just lost in knowledge." A jerk of the point of her chin indicates the newly acquired eye. "That's not his, is it? I saw… Haldrath. The original Knights… The eyes they took from Nidhogg. Both eyes, Estinien." Her gaze searches his helm, watching his lips and jaw, and it strikes him how painfully close the hue of those irises are to the Eye he has wielded for so long, a gaze of blood and power and ancient anger. At least he is sure no one could pluck out her eyes and remove her strange powers.

"The whole truth of what you saw. Please." And she does; the betrayal, lifeless bodies beneath their veiling covers, the rejection of a throne, the rejections of nobility, the blood that runs now through very likely every elezen who lives in their country. Two bloody red eyes, kept with Haldrath, and a Nidhogg left alone to perish without the source of his power. Even with Nidhogg without Eye or Eyes again, he can feel that all-consuming hatred seeping over his skin like a corruption, carried in the wyrm's blood that mars his armor, in the sickly aether that caresses him like a rotted shroud. And that Eye, that damnable, strange, _golden_ Eye, so familiar, as if… _Oh._

_Well then. A stop before even Aymeric can learn of what happened. She deserves the truth._ It's not that he likes Iceheart, precisely, but he respected her convictions, and that even now, things are hidden from her, Hraesvelgr hiding his shame… Oh, yes, that makes him almost as angry as the power he carries within. As a precaution, he passes the newly acquired eye over to his companion. The strange mix of powers in it makes him uneasy, but she carries it with far more seeming grace. 

Once they have left the wrym's lair and deathbed, he tells her, "We must first have words with Hraesvelgr. There are parts of this tale that the wyrm has kept from us, and I would know wherefore…" She studies him once more, as if unsure what she's seeing, then gives a simple nod of assent.

\-----

He was right, of course. _Not many ancient wyrms with only one golden eye around, are there?_ Internally, he burns with an anger that he isn't sure is entirely his own, still drenched in blood and aether and memory, but what does it matter? Hraesvelgr had supposedly _loved_ one of his people, and he gave his brother renewed life and the ability to torment her people for a thousand years, a thousand years of dying, of breaking, of blood on snow, on grass, sprayed on autumn leaves and over hearths, a thousand --

The moment when Kohanya solemnly pulls the Eye forth draws him from the spiraling reverie of soul-rending rage, although seeing the retrieved Eye wink from her hand back to its originator only turns the rage cold and icy. In the end, the price for the dragon was _nothing_ and then the two women are both half-falling as the Echo hits them, and he can do nothing but stand between them, tensed, for the seconds it takes for them to see the past, when they are helpless and lost. Stand and watch Hraesvelgr, still unrepentant. Unforgiving, unguilty, unbowed, even to Iceheart's admonishments, when he'd thought there might have been some small shred of respect. Instead, they are all _dismissed_ , as if they were _insects_ , and the dragon retreats back to his eternity of self-indulgent mourning. 

Estinien takes a few deep breaths, steps closer to the others, briefly rests a hand against Kohanya's back, letting the solidity and nearness of her calm him a little. His gaze turns to Iceheart - no, Ysayle - and offers, indirect in apology, his admission at being unable to enjoy the slaying, at the recognition of how much was a twisted mirror of himself, with too much hate and rage. Which is all too true, even as he sees her sad understanding, feels the quiet presence of the Warrior press a little nearer to him in comfort, and a wave of great and bitter tiredness sweeps through him. He has seen himself as a righteous protector, as vengeance made incarnate, and for what? To find he has been hunting lies and a darker shade of himself, that he has become little more than the anger and hatred too. What real ties does he have to something that's not about rage? Aymeric. Kohanya. Alphinaud, perhaps, brotherly and young, and a scattering of rare comrades he respects. Such a tenuous braid, to keep him from being as much of an abyss.

Then the message; Ishgard, in chaos, heretics let in and fighting even as they did their best to end the threat, to unravel the vast and tangled knot at the origin of the war. He is surprised when Ysayle wants to come with, to calm her comrades, but there is no denying the respect for her it sparks in him. Her world has been shattered into an endless field of glass shards, much like his, yet she is still fighting to do all she can to bring about peace. If her life had been a little different… He cannot but regret, that such a stout heart was lost to Ishgard for so long.


	9. Snagged Nails and Tattered Lace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to Ishgard, there is chaos, and then there's just people making dubious choices and friends who have to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit of a trip for me, as Kohanya apparently decides to pick right around when things get dramatic to need to be the focal character. At least in this chapter, she won't regret it too much. Drama, angst, and some good-old-fashioned-stress-relief-sex as her voice settles into place for the moment.

The city is stone and shadow and flickering firelight when they arrive, and it is only via good luck and timing that they come across Haurchefant in the streets. Following his lead to the thick of it, the heretics are turned back at Ysayle's words, her fervent entreaties for embracing peace in the wake of Nidhogg's defeat. When that news first passes the silvery sylph's lips, Kohanya feels her body tensing minutely, preparing for a poor reception; she is not the only one, as Estinien moves with clear surety from the far side of Ysayle to near, as if he will place himself between her and the crowd if it goes wrong, even now. She feels a deep flash of affection at that, foolish as it is, and is ever grateful for the years of learning to keep her face stilled to neutral peace. Nymeia pulls the threads into alignment for them, and it falls that they accept, turn to go in dispirited defeat. When their Lady turns to follow them, she feels a pang of loss, the parting of a rare other with that same shard of light, and watches her go with sad eyes. As the flicker of white against the dark disappears, she feels a mailed hand touch her lower back, and turns back to the knight and dragoon. Silver on silver, moonlight and steel, the lance's edge and the strong shield of friendship. 

"Thank you, Haurchefant, for your trust. She has been with us since before the Mists, but I do not know who else would have trusted that she came with good intentions, even in our company." Kohanya smiles at him, the warmth that lead her to this new city, the outline of a new family, and tries not to laugh at his shock at the idea of her and Ysayle and Estinien, hero and heretic and dragonslayer, bound in arms together. The idea of a moment of calm and storytelling is appealing, but the dragoon is all too quick to quash it, volunteering to fetch Ser Aymeric to Fortemps manor with a swiftness that has her trying to sneak a glimpse under his helm again, to read the increasingly familiar hard lines of that starkly beautiful face. Unfortunately, he's learned that trick of hers, and his head angles ever so slightly to keep her from seeing his full expression, full lips briefly showing a ghost of a wicked gremlin's smirk. Her stomach does a little fluttering leap, and she quickly turns back to Haurchefant, taking his arm with hers and letting him lead her back to the Manor, making small talk on the route. 

Once home -- and she knows in her heart, she thinks of it that way, even if she will not openly admit to it, not Gridania or Limsa, not the Waking Sands or the Rising Stones, but the thick stone walls of this manor and the good men within, who let her finally _belong_ \-- they reassure Count Edmont as to his son's safety, as to their safe return. She even lets Alphinaud fuss and ask after her possible injuries while they wait for the Ishgardian's military arms to arrive, teasing him gently about how soft he must think her to be. The wait is short, however, and she lets her voice fall off when _they_ are escorted in. Tonight, not dark and blue and gold, all the night sky in radiance together, but blue and gold and red, blood marring the fireflies drifting in the first evening hours of summer. Her fingers itch to take that armor from Estinien, to clean it properly, but there's been no _time_ , and she knows the mail is more than just simple metal and leather. It still grates, and rather than resting her eyes on him with shielded gaze watching subtly as she usually prefers to, she lets her gaze draw more to his companion. Well, his armor, at least… if she can focus on the intricate ornamentation, then weave of the tabard, the embroidery, then she won't sneak glimpses at his face. He's almost _too_ pretty, too beautiful, and she never wants to trust it, but finds it alluring all the same… all the more so in how true he's proven so far, and in the way she sees Estinien drawn as much into the magnetism of it, even if he thinks it's hidden. It would be, to most, but she's learned her role as a hero; she watches and waits and listens to what her commanders bid. Better to have some idea what they'll ask her to face next, better to study all of them in every minute detail, to be always on edge, so she won't ever be surprised again when one is false.

Alphinaud's piping voice draws her from her reverie. He's tried so hard to be a good commander, and she could never not forgive him for his optimism and hope, no matter how misplaced. For her friend, she focuses, as he calls to the other the question of the truth, of the war's origin. Aymeric's response draws her gaze fully up to his face, and she stares a moment, arrested. How can someone in so much power be so _accepting_ of the idea of his people as false and flawed? It goes against all she has known so far, and she does not understand it. Merlwyb has always been brave and daring. Kan-e-Senna wise and steady. Nanamo… Nanamo might have been so accepting, once. Perhaps not now. Aymeric is an oddity. 

Edmont is wiser than the rest of them, faster to pick up on the implication when the Lord Commander says that the situation "cannot be allowed to continue". She finds herself nodding agreement at his immediate caution against speaking to the Archbishop. The arcanist recalls the chill that ran up her spine when Thordan beheld her with chips of ice that seemed cooler than Shiva's secretly warm soul, when he tried to twist words around her and trap her in a web. No, no, she does _not_ think her noble, sweet tempered friend should go there, nor the man that she can see speaking of soothes the ragged edges of Estinien in ways she can't yet. A swirl of voices around her confirms that same view, but she can find none of her own, and the failure twists inside like a knife. When Aymeric retorts, calm and sure and steady, full of conviction, the _hero_ in her accepts his words, trusts in him, the voice of a Lord Commander, picking what weapons to take to battle. The hidden, screaming voice within, well, she tries to quiet it. It doesn't matter. The habit of _follow orders_ lasts long enough for him to leave. Of course… no one else dared move either. Maybe it's not her failure alone.

  
Hearing the clarity of Lucia's commitment a moment later, her intent to step in and retrieve Aymeric if need be is a balm, and she can almost feel the lodestone of her loyalty shift to this new Command for the moment, realigning to trust in the person she finds most convincing in the field. Convincing in more ways than one, when Lucia's cool voice lays bare that she believes that if the worst comes to pass, Ser Aymeric will survive longer than anyone else would because of a rumored connection… because he might be Thordan's _son_. The same rumor she herself had used to trip up the Azure Dragoon, to prove to herself that she could reliably read his expression in denial or truth. Again, the memory of blue eyes; Thordan's, merciless, chill, as if he was already taking her apart to remove anything useful and store it away. Aymeric's, so close in hue, but always warm and welcoming, passionate in defense of his city and friends, full of vitality. There's another moment when it seems like she can _feel_ the warp and weave of fate snap into lace around her, history spinning out before her eyes like a silken tapestry.

And one by one, they fall into step. Haurchefant, her dear friend, swearing on the honor of a knight, even against his father's fears, Alphinaud, so young and so bold. Her own soft nod of agreement, not knowing what to add other than the presence of her arms, overwhelmed in all that is occurring. The group starts to splinter to prepare for the likely outcome they will discover in the morning. First Alphinaud, to the library, to see what can be found there, then Lucia and Haurchefant follow, arguing over details of the church's layouts and defenses, between her rank and his far greater familiarity from the position of being one of the faithful. When it is only her and the Azure Dragoon left, she catches at his hand before he can go. "Estinien. Can we… talk?" 

She worries about what that pause implies; she does _not_ mean it in any way other than the literal, but while there's a brief hint of amusement, Kohanya thinks he recognizes her agitated unease. She leads the way, and they retreat to a small side parlor, gently shutting the door in their wake. There's a tinge of guilt at that, because she's pretty sure that in Ishgardian terms, this is _not done_ , but the idea of trying to explain any of this among so many people is far worse. The tall Elezan has gone slightly still beside her when she does and she lifts her hands, removes her hat and sets it on a nearby table, then reaches up higher, searching for the latches to remove his helm. His hands cover hers, stopping her, and even if she can't see his gaze searching hers through the visor, she knows it must be there, and she swallows faintly. "Please? This day has been perilously long, and the next may be worse. I want to see you, at least, without the aetheric stain over your features." She isn't sure he'll understand, the vulnerability in asking or the reason, but perhaps he does, because almost as soon as that first soft word has left her lips, his touch gentles, and he lets her unhook the helm, to lift it free and bare the half-matted tangle of ragged-cut silver beneath. As she steps back, still holding the helm, Estinien unties and latches, and his gauntlets are left on the table as well. 

Even in this, a slight smile graces her lips, and she moves to settle on one of the couches, settling his helm in her lap, absentmindedly trying to buff some of the blood, the aether, the stain off with her sleeve. It draws her gaze for a few moments, frowning as it insists on going unmoved, and the miqo'te scholar finds herself startled when Estinien is beside her again, settling to sit at her side. Given the location, she thought he'd pick somewhere close, but not this much so, where she could watch but not touch. With a delicacy that is almost but not quite a surprise, he takes the helm from her grip, sets it on his other side, his voice gruff as ever, but with that slight softening in pitch he uses around her. "Let it be. It will have to be reforged, you can not clean it away."

She reminds herself she has permission to stare, to look, and lifts her gaze to his face, catching the hints of worry in the deep night hues of his eyes. She tries to smile, but it doesn't last long, and after a moment, she pulls her gloves off, murmuring an apology in explanation for what she's about to do. "I'm sorry, I can't… sit still right now. I thought today would feel… triumphant. Not hollow again. That once, once, there'd be a battle won that was clearly the right thing, and…" She begins to gently card fingertips through the tangled silver of his hair, catching on knots again and again, pulling them free with delicate persistence and the occasional harder snap. He grimaces, but doesn't stop her. "You said earlier, there's ever more questions, ever more risks. We fell one evil, and the other that rests in the heart of the nest, a viper among rabbits, may be hunting even now. What… is likely to happen to him?"

_Oh._ The wince and flash of deep fear at that is impossible to miss. She's almost certain he chose not to even try and hide it from her, given how raw his voice is when he answers. Helpless to do more, she keeps finger-combing, putting some small piece of her world into array as he lays out the ways the rest of it might fall apart. "Aymeric is brave and noble and, sometimes, terribly unwise. If we're lucky, they might just toss him into a cell below the Vault to rot away in obscurity. More likely, they will want to know everything he knows about the truths of the past, about how he knows it, if there's any proof and the names of anyone else who is aware. Being who he is, I have no doubt he will disagree with any reasons they give for why what they do is righteous, and I have far less faith than Lucia that his bloodline will keep him alive past a few day's attempt to break him. Which they will attempt; he has respect enough that if the Heaven's Ward can bow him to their will, tame him to their hand, it would reinforce their power ever further."

Kohanya guides his head into turning slightly, letting her reach the rest of his hair, grateful that he's tolerating the act of being preened, even the small action helping settle her. "So we have a few days, at best, once the results of this are clear." She tugs out one last tangle, then smooths the strands over his forehead, the planes of his cheekbones like the snowy cliffs. "Whatever you need from me, I will give. Not just for Ishgard and Lucia, important as they are." Her smile is soft and wistful, and her gaze dips slightly, not quite directly meeting his, but she can still catch the brief surge of warmth as he turns, face in her hands, and leans in and down slightly, the full coolness of his lips pressing against her forehead in a silent claim. Then they glide further, trace a path along her nose, finally settling over her own, hot now from her skin and capturing her breath as the kiss deepens, ever so slowly. There could be more words, other words, but right now, neither of them need them, letting the seconds of trust and closeness crystallize around them like aging honey until there is the sound of footsteps in the hall and they both shift, hands in laps, the gap between them growing as if there's some invisible chaperone between. 

When Haurchefant steps in and finds them, rouses them for one final round of confirmations before Lucia leaves, she catches him sneaking a wink at her when she retrieves her hat and replaces it on her head. He, at least, she doesn't think she fooled. That's alright. There's few she'd trust more, after all.

\-----

It does not surprise her when after she has bathed and changed and returns to her chambers, the window is open in a narrow splinter that still lets it an excess of the frigid wind, with the fire banked higher to try and compensate. As she bolts the door behind her, Estinien closes the window, and she allows herself the indulgence of a look of fond exasperation. "I would ask how you knew which room was where I have been settled, but when one is the only female in residence and the staff insists on decorations to suit…" It is little more than a whisper, but Kohanya knows he will hear her. She _hopes_ he will forgive the terrifying amount of lace in the room, given the explanation. As much as she loves the Fortemps, and for that matter, enjoys fabric and the opportunity to live among finery, she lives in constant fear of snagging her nails on the truly astounding amount of the frothy white stuff that seems to adorn every dangling edge in her chambers. He's already set aside gauntlets and helm once again, clearly expecting to be staying at least a short while. She would feel under-dressed in the lighter linen nightgown she'd put on after her bath, but… Well, when a man sneaks into your windows, he ought to know what to expect. Spreading her wet hair out across her shoulders, she moves to sit by the fire to let it dry, fairly sure he will follow.

So he does, settling onto the rug beside her with a faint grimace. "I get accused of being uncivilized, but as soon as you're away from the nobility, you do everything in your power to avoid chairs. What did they ever do to you?" 

Glancing up at his face, she flicks her tail, letting it impact softly against and curl around his arm. "Coerthans don't design with the bodies of non-Elezans in mind. It's not a significant problem, but sometimes you just want to stretch all your limbs… and I can't do that in one of your chairs." Unwinding the furred appendage, she lets it fall back to trailing behind her, shifting to try and find a way to lean comfortably against his taller, still largely mail-beclad form.

Estinien makes a low sound of understanding, then tries to muffle a laugh at her vain attempts to settle comfortably. "If the armor is such a bother, I can leave you to your rest..." He says it gruffly, as if he truly expects her to object, but when her eyes narrow warningly in response, there's a distant hint of humor in the deep blue of the gaze that locks with hers, the flicker of gold binding to something warmer in a too cold present. Huffing out a soft breath, she gives a quick nod of her head, reaching to help with the removal process again. If nothing else, she can still faintly _smell_ the blood on it, or something else unpleasantly sharp and acrid. Being honest, she'd rather not question too carefully what particular draconic fluid led to that, what with the stabbing out eyes and… She grimaces. In no small part due to that, once he's down to the thin shirt and lightweight leather pants worn below, she takes the mail pieces and sets them by the window, unable to fully hide her expression of distaste.

When she returns, the dragoon's expression is hovering somewhere between amused and offended, as if he is not completely sure what he thinks of her reaction to the altered mail still being so strong. It sharpens a moment later, turning thoughtful, and he reaches to pull her back down to sit, notching her into his lap, which she does her best to settle into gracefully other than the slight squeak she emits at the quick descent "You can't seem to keep up your face of being the good, unthinking soldier with me. Why is that?" It's not a question she expects. It's not something she assumed anyone _noticed_ , not even him, even if she should have known better.

Time stretches like fabric pulled taut in a hoop as she stares, trying to find the words to answer. He waits, scrutinizing her face, one long arm curled around her waist, slightly tense, as if he half-expects her to bolt at the question. _Too late now._ Having to lick her lips to wet them, she finally says, very softly, "Because you refused to just see me as a hero?" Her gaze flicks from moment to moment, restless with nerves, to the notch of his collarbone, the line of his throat, the thoughtful curve of lips. "You knew I was useful, but you never assumed that meant invulnerable and unfeeling. That's… rare." Worried that he's going to speak and break the spider silk thin thread of her thoughts, she reaches up, laying one fingertip lightly against his lips, asking for a moment's more patience. "Because nearly everyone else, even among the Scions, are people of the city and you feel like… you remember how to be fully _in_ the world." She starts to move her finger away, but Estinien catches her hand in his, curling her fingers around the long lines of his palm, then presses a kiss to the back of them.

"If we all survive this, I am going to get a great deal of satisfaction out of being able to prove to Aymeric that being socially terrible is the way to break through your walls." The dragoon rumbles in a low tone, and before she can question what precisely that means, he uses the hand still holding hers to tip her chin up so his lips can claim hers. This one isn't about hunger, but is almost soft, or as much so as its can be, with the stress and tension of the day. When it is broken, Estinien speaks again, drawing back enough to watch her features closely. "Kohanya. Before we face this… I want a truth and a promise from you." 

Hearing her use her name, instead of the polite _Warrior of Light_ or the far less polite but more affectionate _kitten_ is unexpected enough that she just blinks a few times, nonplussed, then give a slow dip of her chin. "What truth and what promise are you seeking?" He seems approving at that caution, which is, again, not what she foresaw, and she feels off balance in his arms, remembering how long it's been since she genuinely let herself trust her instincts instead of accepting someone else's or just blindly assuming the best no matter what. 

His hand still holds hers, settling now to rest against her sternum, warm and heavy. His voice is heavy in a way too, steady and with little room to wiggle in her answer, if she was willing. "The truth. You would not have it in you to gainsay Alphinaud usually, and I daresay you were quite dazzled by Lucia's command. Are you sure you, yourself, wish to take the risk of being involved in what comes? Not for me, not for Lucia, not for Alphinaud. The truth of what you want to do." The dark sphere of his gaze, midnight without the moon, pins her as sure as a dragon's talon through the heart would have. "Do _you_ want to risk your life and your reputation in Ishgard challenging Thordan to rescue Ser Aymeric? The home you're trying to make here?"

She can feel how quickly her lips curl down into a frown, chin rising up in challenge as her tail starts to lash behind her. "Of course I do! I have told you before, Aymeric has ever been a friend, and Thordan is… At best a pawn to evil, given what we know now. I may be good at following orders, but these are to save a friend, and a good person. If none of you went, I would still try to find a way." 

He is still watching her like a predator, weighing each word she says until he decides they are true. "Good. For the promise… Never be that. Never just the hollow soldier in my arms. If you obey me, let it be _you_ that does it. If you are ordered and you question it, _let yourself_. If only with me, or only yourself, ask the questions." Her hand is still in his, fingers interlaced now, and she's not sure if he's holding her in place or holding on for dear life. A slight, convulsive shudder runs through the miqo'te's limbs, tail stilling its lashing, the words a splash of cold water, sobering as she considers what might have once happened to motivate this demand.

Kohanya gives the request the deliberate thought it deserves, letting her face betray her careful weighing of what is asked, of her own abilities, then she finally nods, her ears drooping a little as she does so. "I promise that I will do my best to, at least. I think that is as much as is fair." She can feel how he relaxes after that, and wonders what scared him so, if it was her listening to him, or her tendency to simply accept what she's told in general when it comes from authority. Neither seems to usually be what someone questions…

It is apparently the right answer though, as his arm around her back pulls her in to crush her against his chest, his face pressing down against her hair and pressing kisses to the base of her ears. "Good." She feels her heart swell at the praise, pathetic as that is, and nestles in a little more, breathes in the leather and musk of him, the lingering hint of draconic ichor and aether a sharp edge that should detract but doesn't. Finding the notch of his collarbones where his shirt lacings gape open, she nuzzles in more, then finds the instinct to bite rising. Given the admonition to actually trust herself, for him, she gives in, kissing and then biting down on the jut of one clavicle, almost delicately. The way he gasps in response and his hand tightens on hers is eminently pleasing, so she does it again.

After the second bite, he nudges her chin up to kiss her again, deeply this time, letting his tongue scrape along her teeth, then having his own catch at her lower lip, making it swell softly in their wake. She sighs, low and contented, and he lets her hand go now to have both arms wrapped around her and hold her close. Still emboldened, she works her hands under the waistband of his shirt and up, fingernails dragging over muscles, feeling them catch against scarring as she works higher. Estinien's breath hitches in his throat and the soft sighing she makes becomes a growl, her hands twisting around to tug at his shirt demandingly. Barking out a quiet laugh, he lets go of her so she can pull it off, then hooks a finger into the neck of her nightgown and just _looks_ at her, gaze full of heat and a silent question. So she gets rid of that, too, bracing knees against the floor to lift her weight enough to tug it free, resettles against him with nothing left to keep self from self but skin and a pair of well-worn leather pants.

Given the chance now, straddling his lap, she returns to tracing fingers over his abdomen, letting herself learn the convergences of his waist, the hard lines of ribs, the places where scars new and old lie in fractured trails of pink or white. Her nails flick over the small discs of nipples, watching them react, and she smiles smugly, then turns her inquiring gaze higher. There is a fading bruise on one shoulder, a dark starbust of claim that could only have come from a mouth, which she knows it's not hers. When she tries to catch his gaze, curious, Estinien merely smirks and leans in, mirroring the mark on her shoulder, teeth and lips dragging and digging until the same dark asterix mars her paleness. She shudders, not totally sure if he means it as his own or if it's some strange, silent transference. 

Questions are diverted by the dragoon's hands finding her breasts, lifting and cupping, and she leans into the touch, eyes half-closing in lazy pleasure. Roughened fingers catch at her nipples, rolling and tugging, until her back arches and she makes a ragged sound, drawing another pleased smirk to his face. Which of course means that he does it _again and again_ , until she's breathing in ragged pants, hips grinding softly against his still clothed lap, which is very surely a crime against the Twelve. With a great concentration of effort, she snags at his waistband, demanding breathlessly, " _O_ _ff._ " 

She's managed to forget in her excitement that he can't really remove the trousers with her in his lap, which leads to a certain degree of sulking when she's gently lifted off of it and set over to the side. Not that much pouting, however, because she realizes that this means she can watch him finish stripping, with good lighting this time, and she is more than happy to do so, appreciation shining through her eyes. She might even lick her lips a little. Maybe more than a little, given that after he's lightly tossed his pants in the direction of the rest of his clothes, Estinien makes a soft, scoffing noise and mutters, "Why does everyone want to _eat_ me lately?"

Her eyes narrow, and she's about to offer a demonstration about _eating_ when he crouches back down next to her, gaze locking with her own, and she forgets how to think for a moment in that compelling darkness. "Well, kitten, I suspect you don't want to risk waking anyone up, so…" 

She makes a low sound, ears each turning opposite directions towards the walls, then she pushes gently against his shoulders, her cheeks flushing. "Sit down again?" He lets her take over the direction and does as asked, allowing her to settle straddling his lap again. It's at that point that when Kohanya realizes while she knows _what_ she wants to do, she's a great deal less sure about _how_ to do it. She chews on her lower lip, and for lack of a better notion, allows herself to briefly get caught up in reaching and wrapping her hands around him, small fingers dragging and exploring in more detail. As she had hoped, it's a quite thorough distraction from any other questions for a few moments as she twists fingers into slow spirals, toys over ridges and tests tiny drags of nails, but the real problem is that watching the way Estinien reacts, face flushed, hips starting to rock a bit under her, lips parted, well… soon, she's back to desperately craving more herself. 

Nervously, she lifts her weight up onto her knees, pressing closer to him, mouth nuzzling along his neck as she tries to figure out how to angle his length in her hand so she can settle onto it. The process is not as straightforward as she expected, and the first few tries either end in sliding the wrong way so the tip of him presses along her folds and bud, which is pleasant but not the _intent_ , or on one unfortunate occasion, comes painfully close to bruising something. She finally bites off a bitter curse against his neck and when the arrogant twit starts _laughing_ at her, it's the last incentive needed to be a little slower, a little more careful, and this time, she feels the pressure in the right spot and drops her weight down, with as much control as she can, feeling her body stretch open in accommodation. It burns slightly with aching at the speed, but it was more than worth the pay off in how that laugh cuts off in a strangled groan and his hands turn into grasping claws against her back, nails dragging at skin and no doubt dyeing her paleness with stripes of red.

She gives herself a few seconds to adjust to feeling wonderfully full and close and warm. Soon enough, though, the feeling of him twitching within drives her to move, starting with a somewhat awkward and erratic rolling of her hips until she finds a rhythm that he can move a little back into. At first, she keeps up with the attention to his neck, leaving a few more small marks, but the desire to watch his face is strong enough that she lifts her chin, shifting til she can rest her forehead against his. They both seem comfortable that way, and for awhile, the room is quiet other than heavy breathing, the faint sound of sweat-slick skin on sweat-slick skin, the low keen of a sound trapped in a throat as they move raggedly together. 

She is unsure how long she would be content to commune that way, but it's not her resolve that breaks first, but his, one strong hand working between where they meet, fingers curling up til he can grind the callused pad of one demandingly in circles around her clit. With the additional pressure and motivation, her movements speed, head hanging heavier against the dragoon's, breath growing faster and shallower in every moment. She feels her body start to clench down in a ragged series of waves around his length when she peaks and presses her lips together hard to swallow the accompanying groan. When he spills in her a few heartbeats later, it's with no more alert than a sharp in-drawn breath, and her rather pleasure-blasted mind finds a scrap of envy at the self-control. After that, though, she sinks her weight down fully and just leans on him awhile, waiting to regain the recollection of how _normal_ breathing is supposed to work. 

As coherency slips back around her like a veil, she recognizes the feel of his fingers stroking over her ears, making her yawn softly. "Stop that… gonna make me pass out before I can get to bed. Or… clean first, maybe…" There's a low rumble of laughter and the hand drops away, allowing her to gather the willpower (and her discarded nightgown) to make the brief trip back to the washroom. When she returns, she finds him still waiting, and passes over a wet cloth with a wry smile. "I didn't think you would want to leave here in that state but… I wasn't sure."

The decidedly derisive look he gives her makes her laugh, unable to stop it. "I don't appreciate the need to bother with fripperies and finery. That doesn't make me completely unable to care for myself." Still laughing, she lifts onto her toes to kiss his cheek, taking the cloth back once he's cleaned himself. Afterwards, she settles to sit on the edge of the bed, watching as he retrieves undergarb and armor, beginning the process of hiding away once more. As much as she likes the idea of him staying, there's such a thing as pushing the boundaries of propriety a little too far. When there's naught left but to replace his helm, he pads, smooth and shockingly quiet for a man in mail, to her side and leans to kiss her forehead. "Under the covers, kitten. I'll go once I see you at least trying to sleep instead of ruminating."

While she wrinkles her nose, it does little to hide the slight smile as she does as asked, tucking herself into the soft sheets and heavy coverlets… and the damnable lace throw over it all, which will inevitably end up tossed up to the floor by the morning. Once she's settled, turned onto her side to face the window, although she makes a show of closing her eyes. Of course, she opens them again as soon as she hears the faintest sound of his feet moving away, and more so when the window opens, but he doesn't comment… even if she thinks she sees a slight hint of smile before he leaps into the night and disappears, drawing the pane back into place in his wake. Sighing softly, she burrows deeper into the warmth of the fine bed and tries to sleep. There was work to be done in the morning.


	10. Grip Going Slack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rescue attempt and consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but this is where we're at, and it's going to hurt.
> 
> A debt owed to my dear friends who went along with it when I said 'we need to run the Vault at minimum ilvl for RESEARCH PURPOSES' and didn't ask any more.
> 
> I promise next chapter will soothe the pain a little, but... Yeah, this one hurts.

The morning brings the news both feared and foretold; a messenger interrupts a post-dawn breakfast to deliver a hastily penned letter confirming that Ser Aymeric returned to neither his home nor the Congregation the night before, and that none has seen him leave the Cathedral. A look around confirms a matching grimness on the faces of the rest of household, other than a brief moment where Count Edmont closes his eyes in resigned weariness and sadness. Unable to stop herself from the need to comfort, Kohanya pauses on her way out to regather the threads of his calm in what small way she can, stopping to lay a hand on the aging man's shoulder. "We'll be careful, as much as we can be, I promise." When he looks to her, she smiles, soft and warm, and relaxes a little when the count gives her hand a reassuring pat before she lets go.

By the time she's re-garbed from gown to heavy healer's robes, gloved and booted, hat firmly in place, and returned to the parlor, Lucia herself has appeared. Despite the early hour, she is already immaculate in shining armor, the crescent of her circlet set atop her brow, and her gaze like the wintry sea. For a second, Kohanya watches her from the doorway, feeling that magnetic pull of command again, not totally sure if she ever responds to Lucia more from admiration or from her ongoing struggle against the desire to lift the burden of heroics by following someone else. Estinien's voice from the night before rises in her mind, and she hides a slight grimace, reminding herself sternly to actually stop and  _ think _ about whatever plan is proposed. As she does so, she hears the footsteps of the individual in question coming down the hall and quietly dismisses the realization that she already recognizes the specific pace of that tread before she steps into the parlor to join the planning session.

Which means she has to actually let herself feel the brief intense pang of disappointment when Alphinaud's first thought for allies is, of course, to go to another noble house, like jabbing her finger when embroidering. He  _ means _ well, she always has faith in that, but sometimes, his vision of who matters can still be unfortunately shuttered. Thankfully, Lucia is more than prompt in presenting the opposite suggestion and it is blessedly well received, both by Alphinaud and by her own heart -- she is far happier to look in the Brume for those willing to challenge the church than those who have prospered by it for so long. Mind, she's not at all convinced that anyone in the Brume is going to want to talk to Alphinaud given his mannerisms, but if she steps forward….

The conversation moves on, confirming that, at the worst, the dragoons will not interfere even if whether they will help is questionable. The rest is dire warning and premonitions and it is with a heavy heart that she allows her footsteps to echo the determined patter of Alphinaud's as he leads the way out for the trip to the Forgotten Knight, allowing herself only a brief look over her shoulder before the door closes, at the gathered figures within: lover and leader, father and fierce protector. Swallowing hard, she turns her eyes resolutely back to the slim back of the young man she is supposed to be trusting in and walks on. 

\----

Actually finding and making allies -- of a sort, at least -- from the Brume becomes a matter that consumes a morning and most of the afternoon, all spiraling down in on an interruption by the Ward itself in the waning hours that makes their stakes painfully clear. Ser Charibert -- and thank goodness Alphinaud knew the name, because she struggles to tell the smug bastards apart -- is dealt with without too much bloodshed, but in the course of fighting through the city streets, there's no way to hope that things will be kept quiet, even before they are met by Lucia and Haurchefant. Fabric worn thin it might be, but it's pierced through at Lucia's warning that the Ward has announced the imprisonment of Ser Aymeric and their control of the Temple Knights, which means the sand in the glass has run out; they have to move now. Hilda heads off to divert the high houses, and she's left to meet with a few handpicked soldiers sent by the others and… well, Kohanya is not surprised to find herself placed in the group whose goal is to cause as much trouble as possible and get beat on so others can do the real heroics. A slim threading of her wants to be bitter, but when she sees the handful of compatriots who've agreed to accompany her charge, she cannot be: they are far braver to face this with their power than she is with hers. While he has changed into unremarkable standard armor, she has little question that the man must be one of the loyal temple knights by the confident way he holds sword and shield. The two women are a machinist with Brume in her voice, and a dragoon with the slight burr of the Coerthan deep country. She hopes the four of them will be enough.

While they're still in the public areas, dealing with little more than the common guards (if a great many of them), this seems to be a reasonable assumption. The knight isn't as practiced as some adventurers she's worked with, but more than competent enough, and the machinist stays reassuringly far back from the danger areas. The dragoon is… Well, the only one she's ever known who didn't convince her they had an immediate suicide wish is Estinien, and she's often suspicious that it's only the word  _ immediate _ that makes the difference there. 

Any opportunity she had to risk developing false confidence is  _ soundly _ denounced by the first member of the actual Ward they encounter. Oh, it starts out easily enough, but then something goes terribly wrong with his aether and she smells burning. When he transforms in a burst of light, the situation dissolves into little better than controlled chaos, a whirling maelstrom of flaming orbs and darting figures as they all try and avoid the explosions that tear at skin and lick fire over their forms. It's only by her best efforts that she can keep the knight holding the transformed Ser at bay healthy, and by the time their enemy falls, she is panting and doubled over, aether threading reedy through her fingers. That was  _ not _ just a man, definitely  _ not _ just a knight of great experience and skill, and it takes longer than she'd like to regain her grounding, make sure the others are well enough, and continue.

Unfortunately, that sets the mood for the fights to come. Bruises and scratches and a few mild scares from the defenses and the knights… And then there's another member of the Ward, and the lightning-burn aether, and darkness, and oh,  _ Spinner _ , it becomes a nightmare, like a thread snarled well past retrieval, and they're stumbling and running, the portals are dark and reaching and Eos is buzzing so loud it sounds like  _ screaming _ . Somehow, through some miracle of fate or mercy's hand, she keeps herself from being too sore hurt, and keeps the knight standing even as she feels like she's literally tearing her own blood out to do it sometimes. She can't say as much for the two fighters, having to once pull the machinist out of a blow into unconsciousness mid-fight, and then the dragoon after. More than a little shocked at the ferocity of the Ward's power, she chugs the bitter draught of elixirs, bandages a few of the more minor wounds, and tries not to let her gaze turn longingly to the incongruously peaceful courtyard outside, all setting sun and pine trees and flowers. How is this terrible place so beautiful? Somewhere, they may still be wringing answers from one of the kindest men she knows with magic or violence, and the entire time, it seems like she is ascending in a dream, rising to the heavens.

They achieve the open air, and  _ of course _ , there is another member of Heavens' Ward. She should know his name, she should, but… all she can see is the sky, and their blood and the ashes, and terrifying lightning and flame that spins and wreathes and dances while they fight. There's nothing short of a primal that has required her to pull forth this much of herself in battle before, nothing that has left her coughing smoke and ash, grinds soot and gore into her skin and robes as she darts from companion to companion, protecting, rousing, taking any half-breath of pause to toss a hand backwards towards their enemy to throw out a curse. When he finally staggers and that awful power fades, she stands trembling, sucking shallow breaths of clean air. There's a deep, ragged-edged ache, too, where she's been pushing her aether too far, knowing that she could be risking collapse. Yet at the same time, they are so near the summit, and she can meet her friends. She lifts her gaze to the stairs, where the man has fled in pursuit of his comrades.

She thinks of Lucia, steady and sure as the bedrock, and just as dedicated.

She thinks of Haurchefant, defending the role of the knight, of his stubborn refusal to accept Ishgard's sins without ever loving his home any less. 

She thinks of Aymeric's deep well of compassion and devotion, of bravery and impulse and emotions that run hotter than he admits beneath a gaze like ice.

And she thinks of Estinien, and the dark shadows that haunted his eyes, like dragon wings blotting out the sun, when he told her what he believed would happen if they tarried too long in getting here.

She climbs the steps. The others array at her back, guarding the stairs up, and she prays there is nothing left to challenge their bravely ragged souls.

She breaches the doors to the airship landing, worrisomely alone and merely praying the ring of armored feet on the side stairs behind her, one set uneven, is what she is hoping. It is, and she turns to them as they catch up, reassured at Lucia, Haurchefant, Estinien all hale and whole, only lightly marked by battle. Aymeric does not look at all hale or well, but he is upright and moving, and she imagines that was Alphinaud's work. Thank the Spinner for whoever kept him below rather than up here. She still feels the razor-edges of depletion cutting at her inside, but she will survive that, at least, and her own pain fades next to the naked desperation in the Lord Commander's voice, pleading with his father, the utter abandonment of pride and dignity for a minute shred of thin hope. 

Haurchefant meets her eyes and it's an instant salve, his good humor and faith enough to make her believe she can still manage enough to finish this, to strike back against those who have acted to harm their own people. The moment Aymeric's stance switches from desperate hope to bitter resentment at the answer he gets, she nods, and they're running for the airship, and it doesn't even  _ occur _ to her to be on edge, to worry; he has always been there since she met him, always steady and reassuring to guard her back. Which he does again; unlike her, he feels or hears something behind them and stops. She catches it from the corner of her gaze and half-turns, confused, as he's shoving her behind him, shield raising, and everything goes horrifyingly  _ bright _ as a spear of light slices their air towards them and impacts with a ringing, sizzling sound. Her heart skips a few beats as she thinks it will hold, her stout-hearted friend bracing himself, then she hears… it must be the shield cracking, but her mind can't make any sense of it as the lance burns through it and then through  _ him _ and oh, Nymeia, Hydaelyn,  _ Halone, anyone, anyone, he's falling and bleeding and _ \--

The sound echoes in her mind over and over as she kneels next to him, barely aware of anything else, her eyes locked only on the fallen form of her friend as she reaches for him, for her aether, trying to spin it between her fingers and it keeps dissolving into threads and needles that slice at her hands, then he moves, speaks as Aymeric lifts him, and she wants to hope, struggling to reassure him that she's fine, and she reaches for him and takes his hand, and she's trying to smile for him, show him warmth and safety and… She thinks she manages a smile, faint and weak, in time, and then the light fades from the brilliant sapphire blue of those eyes, and there is nothing else to make it come back. Sobbing, she tries to pull her magic, again and again, until the sun is almost below the horizon and she can feel nothing but the endless keening of pain singing a dirge through every part of her.

She can't even carry him out, small as she is, and she hates herself for it. She has seen enough death, but this one cuts too close, too deep, and the failure burns her soul like a brand.


	11. If it were cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up the pieces after the Vault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breaking my pattern due to how ridiculously long this got, an even-numbered, SFW chapter.
> 
> A particular thanks to Shoutz this time, who let me bounce a few fragments I was unsure about and gave feedback, and encouraged me to be brave about a few things.

Lucia shifts Aymeric's staggering form onto Estinien's arm as they near the exit to the Vault, her voice even more clipped than usual. "Take him home. I will find a chirurgeon we can actually trust to treat him and see the others safely to the Fortemps." The unspoken part they both knew was that he would also be making sure the de Borel manor was secured and on guard when he did, to keep their damn fool of a torture-wracked commander alive til morning. He glances down the deeply shadowed streets, the bloodied sunset already turning to night, and is relieved to see them unusually clear. The cause is likely the few he _does_ see, either in silver and rich blue, or incongruously clean Brume clothing. Loyal Temple Knights and the Mongrel's watch, guarding their retreat. _Thank the Fury._

Lucia takes a few quick strides and then gathers one of Kohanya's and one of Alphinaud's elbows in each hand, talking to both in a low voice as she starts to direct them towards the Last Vigil… and the news they had to break. Estinien grimaces, recognizing the kindness hidden in her keeping him out of that. He wraps one arm cautiously around Aymeric's back, keeping him upright and doing his best to ignore the worrying wheeze to the knight's breathing as he guides his oldest beloved home. That sound heralded broken ribs. More than once, the temple knight stumbles hard enough that without Estinien's support, he would have gone to his knees. He tries not to dwell on the things he knows of the church's so called "interrogations", which often have more to do with torturing out the desired answers than any real seeking of truth. Letting his mind picture them in practice, on Aymeric… he has tried not to let himself do so, and will continue to avoid it with any desperate means he can come up with. Halone bless them, let Lucia find someone they can actually trust to treat him… He might have begged Kohanya to do it, despite her shock, but he'd seen her sobbing as she tried to pull enough aether to her fingers, holding Haurchefant's hand, and utterly spent and bereft of even dregs to keep trying to heal the unhealable. Unbidden, his stomach clenches beneath his armor. Too close, losing one friend, and he came so close, closer than should be admitted, to losing both of them… 

Sobered and hollowed, Estinien escorts Aymeric gingerly into his manor, rouses the servants, sets watches, then takes the lord to his room. He is grimly sure of how emotionally and physically spent his lover is when there was no teasing comment made on his slow and careful stripping away of Aymeric's armor, then removal of the bloody tunic and trews beneath. What he finds when all is bared is sobering; bruises, blood, open wounds, some already near to festering, burns that are placed with heart-wrenching precision. It becomes necessary to cleanse and cover quite a few of the injuries immediately. Despite everything, Aymeric has always been hopeful, and seeing him so numb and exhausted, barely responding to the treatment, deprived of the optimism that has been his most infuriating and endearing trait is almost more than Estinien can bear. With a gentleness the dragoon tends to forget he is capable of, he coaxes the other man into a set of sleep-clothes and then into the bed, just as the door knocker slams in the distance. _Finally, a thrice damned healer of some sort!_ Estinien leans in to smooth Aymeric's hair away from his face, pressing a brief kiss to the dark haired man's forehead, allowing himself to show a little tenderness before their privacy is lost.

Estinien feels a lot less tender when he reached the foyer and finds the steward talking to two people he'd thought safely tucked away from public risks, Alphinaud pressing a package into the servant's hands and Kohanya standing behind him, her eyes of dried blood dulled and swollen from weeping, healer's robes still dirtied and marred. Too many parts of that evening had, no matter whose actual death resulted, clearly been an assassination attempt aimed square at the foreign woman. _What the hells was Lucia thinking to-_ The train of thought was interrupted when Alphinaud raised a hand, no doubt already guessing what was going through their host's mind.

"Lucia sent us. Staying at Fortemps Manor tonight seems an imposition. She asked that I do what I can for Ser Aymeric, then return to the Forgotten Knight to recover. She also suggested that I leave Kohanya and a stock of aether potions with you in case there were further complications, and if not, once she has slept and is recovered, she can address the remaining wounds most effectively." Surprisingly, the woman in question at least shows enough awareness to nod wearily to indicate her agreement to this plan, which it hadn't been clear she still was capable of. It doesn't make him any happier that she'd come here with no one but Alphinaud for protection, after multiple attempts at her life, or that she's being enough of a fool to try and tear herself down further attempting to help.

Estinien is also less than fully convinced of how effective her usually impressive healing will be after multiple brutal combats and being left worn to dregs and helpless, even after rest, but at least he knows Alphinaud is probably less drained. Outside of Lucia herself, he doubts there is anyone he'd be more willing to let close to Aymeric in this state. Beyond that, if _this_ was the only help Aymeric's second in command truly felt they could trust… it bore sobering implications. Voice gruff, he nods, short and curt. "Fine. Follow me." 

Disgustingly, but not surprisingly, he finds that Aymeric has managed to drag himself into a sitting position against the headboard and piled pillows to try and look presentable for whoever was at the door. Shooting the knight a dirty look, Estinien settles on the edge of the bed, and lightly flicks a fingertip against Aymeric's nose. "Stop being so insufferably proud and let yourself _rest_ , you idiot. It's no one you have to put on a show for, so let the boy take the edge off." It wasn't as if the dark circles under his eyes and bruising on his face weren't visible, and everyone here knew as much about what happened as they could bear to. Some of them might even be as angry about it as he is, simmering under the more immediate worries and fear.

Aymeric's pale blue eyes flick to their visitors, and he murmurs a slightly raspy greeting, even as he raises his less injured arm and captures Estinien's hand with his to prevent further chastisement. "Master Leveilleur, Mistress Chelewae. You are too kind to me to bother with this so soon. I know this has been a hard night for you as well." The man's broad, callused grip carries Estinien's own with him back to the bedspread, not letting go, which hints far more honestly at how much he is struggling internally. While the dragoon might have protested normally, in the circumstances, he doesn't have it in him to deny Aymeric the comfort it provides. These people, at least, are not going to spread stories, and it's all too quickly becoming a night for secrets shown. Alphinaud's eyes widen very slightly, but to give the boy credit, he doesn't comment. As the youth approaches the bed, Kohanya sinks into a nearby chair in clear exhaustion, chin propped on her hand to keep from collapsing. For a moment, Estinien looks to her to try and gauge her feelings, but her expression seems as… settled as is possible in the circumstances. Certainly not at all surprised, but no matter what hadn't been said between them, he thinks she has suspected for some time.

"I can not heal as much as I believe you need but I should be able to make sure you rest more comfortably, Ser Aymeric, if you'll allow me…" Alphinaud's voice trails off in a question, perfectly polite in nearly every circumstance. He does not have to wait long for a nod of assent, as Estinien squeezes the hand holding his a little tighter. The next few minutes are quiet other than faint sounds of discomfort when Aymeric has to be shifted to give better access to an injury, or soft whispers as Alphinaud debates with himself over what to treat as a priority. In the end, he snaps the strange Sharlayan tome he always carries shut, then bows to the two seated men. "I found it best to focus on the internal injuries in light of the limited time and my abilities, to do the most good in the long term. My apologies, Ser Aymeric, while you will sleep a little easier, I can not do so much as to grant it will be without any discomfort."

The knight starts to shake his head to protest the apology, but Estinien cuts him off with a grunt, standing before he pushes down on the dark haired man's shoulders, gentle but insistent. "He knows we're grateful, but you need the rest and now we can be sure you'll keep breathing." It's a dark joke, although not one without a grain of truth to it. He's pretty sure Alphinaud is flaming red beside him, as he coaxes Aymeric down onto his back and pulls up the covers. There might be a few ways the boy still needs toughening up; none of those touches are at all inappropriate, even if they betray a certain intimacy. The dragoon then shoots a glance to the second, exhausted healer still seated nearby and he demands, "Kitten. If he tries to sit up or do anything but _rest_ , you come sit on him until he stops. That's an order." Her heavy-lidded eyes blink, then for a second, a lopsided, familiar smile tugs at the Warrior's lips and she nods her acceptance. He then turns back to the youngest member of the group, whose blush still hasn't fully faded. "I'll walk you out."

Outside the bedchamber, Estinien gently eases the door shut and lifts a hand before he is peppered with either questions or teasing, letting his own bone-deep weariness show to the young man who is becoming something of a younger brother to him. "I promise, you can squawk at me later until I explain, but tonight, just let it be." To the youth's credit, and the dragoon's relief, a small hand is quickly clapped on his shoulder in a comradely manner as they start to walk to the door.

"I think you have more than earned my trust by now, Estinien, in your support of your friends. I am sure you will take care of the Lord Commander and ensure that Kohanya is not overtaxing herself, nor ask more of her than is fair." 

Once the matter of Alphinaud's departure, accompanied by a house guard, has been managed, the Azure Dragoon moves to return to his companions, pacing through the eerily quiet house. It's not until he's halfway back up the staircase that he realizes that before he left Alphinaud was, however obliquely and politely, _threatening_ him. In a way, he can't help but admire the nerve it took to do it, even if he has no intent of asking too much or any such prattle. 

It turns out the scholar has not had to sit on the injured knight to subdue him, although she has claimed Estinien's abandoned perch on the edge of the bed, one hand resting encouragingly on Aymeric's shoulder to keep him in place.The sight of the two settled close in discussion is reminiscent of the sun and moon in the sky at once, her skin pale as one, his golden like the other, one with hair like midnight, and the other the purple seeping away as the last vestiges of the twilight faded. As he approaches, despite the feeling of intense self-consciousness, Estinien allows himself to give in to the urge that had been nagging him since her arrival and he stops at the bedside, reaching to stroke his fingers over the miqo'te woman's hair and ears in a gentle, comforting gesture, to offer her what small reassurance he can. She'd gotten herself out in one piece, comparatively, but he could guess how hard the fight had been, for her to struggle so to do anything at the end and fail anyway.

"Are they as soft as they look?" The question makes Estinien blink and look down, in time to catch a flicker of emotion somewhere between longing and fear pass through Aymeric's eyes. His voice was thinner now, exhaustion and the stress of the day dragging him inevitably closer to sleep. The dragoon briefly touches the knight's cheek and the question's slight distraction in the midst of the pain and regret is more than enough to settle his decision. Anything he can give, if it will help.

"You can find out in a moment. She's staying here tonight." Estinien's voice is firm, despite his awareness of the absurdity of his demand. At the same time… he knows he won't sleep if either one is here but not _here_ , where he can remain settled as to their safety. He meets wine-deep eyes, icy sky blue ones, then watches as they turn to one another, and both gave a small and slightly hesitant nod. "Did you bring something to sleep in, or should I…" He pauses a moment, realizing that both his own small stash of clothes here and anything of Aymeric's would be somewhere past comically oversized. "I can give you a shirt to sleep in."

Kohanya slides to the edge of the bed with a thinly-worn but still polite smile. "I'd expected to be sleeping on a couch or in a chair, and in my healer's robes. I will accept your offer. It'll be a better rest." The dragoon pulls one of his night shirts from the dresser, pressing it into her hands and then guiding her to the door to the wash chamber. While she prepares herself, he strips out of his remaining armor and clothing as well, redressing in another sleeping shirt and soft pants. He returns to the bed, making sure Gae Bolg is stored near at hand, and then carefully nudging Aymeric towards the middle before climbing under the covers as well. The other man half-turns towards him, a question already on his lips.

"Estinien. Are you sure she is comfortable with--" The question is cut off when the dragoon covers Aymeric's lips with his own, kissing him deeply, putting all the reassurance and familiarity he can into it, a silent promise that no matter what has been revealed or happens, some things would still be the same, his relief at the simple matter of _survival_. 

When he pulls back, Estinien insists, "I will not claim to know her as well as I do you, but I am more than sure that not being alone is better for both you right now." 

There is a half-muffled snort of laughter near the bed, and Estinien looks up, realizing that Kohanya had managed to leave the bathroom quietly enough that he didn't hear her. Or he was that tired. By Ishgardian standards, her dressed in nothing more than his shirt is still scandalous, but in truth, it falls to just past her knees, and even the open lacing at the neckline shows no more than promises, the whole thing closer to a shroud than a temptation. The arcanist settles on the edge of the bed, and leans in, lips brushing over Aymeric's forehead, then the slope of Estinien's nose. Her voice is quiet, but sure, in its eloquent but still reserved way, "We have already established that you have a troubling degree of insight where I am concerned, ser. It is true, my heart aches, and being near to others in pain will dull it a little. I am… tired of mourning alone."

Hydaelyn's chosen offers another fleeting, weak smile, and she settles in on the other side of the bed with a brief stirring of sluggish aether as she gingerly drapes an arm across Aymeric's chest, making sure it will not worsen anything to lie such. Once she has, the knight follows Estinien's earlier suggestion, curling the hand of that side around the top of her head where it rests against his shoulder, allowing him to slowly rub the base of her ears like he would pet a cat. The sensation lures her down into sleep with a swiftness that is familiar now to Estinien, and from the gradual slowing of the worst tension in Aymeric, he can tell either her presence or the old familiarity of soothing someone else is helping him too. Settling against his wounded lover's other shoulder, Estinien curls into the two warm bodies and souls in bed with him, feeling the other man's face press into his hair as Aymeric finally allows himself to cry, hidden between the solace of other aching hearts.

\-----

Aymeric woke early with a start, groggily confused before his eyes opened at the aroma of honeysuckle and cinnamon that filled his nostrils, and the too small, too soft body in the bed with him. His brow creases, senses seeking the familiar, and with the slight, lingering traces of metal and musk blended with oakmoss, and memory began to return to him. The scent - the body - was Kohanya, who Estinien had tucked in with him after his disastrous confrontation with his father. _Like how he used to scoop up the housecat and bring him to me for cuddles when we were yet too unsure to see the need in one another other than for touch._ He blinks his eyes open slowly, feeling the tracks of dried tears on his cheeks, and finds another reminder of a true feline; the Warrior of Light's long strands of rich purple spread in tangled webs across his chest and pillows. _She sheds._ The thought is unexpectedly funny, a brief flash of light against the looming snow clouds outside. 

Another, less fortunate similarity announces itself a moment later when there's a soft impact at the foot of the bed then a rising yowl of offense. Her eyes snap open and Kohanya half-shrinks against him, then she's scrambling wildly for the edge of the bed and, presumably, her gear. Thankfully, even half-awake, it's easy enough to stop her with a quickly wrapped arm and a gasped, "Wait!," even if doing so leaves his shoulder smarting slightly. "It's just Snowflake. Estinien must have left the door cracked." 

The sleep-rumpled woman in his bed stares at him, then down at the foot of the bed, at the fur-poofed, protesting form of a rather scraggly gray and white patched tom cat. Slowly, she looks back at him, then at the cat again, and finally asks, still breathing a little hard from the surprise. "... That does not look like a cat most people would name _Snowflake_ , Aymeric."

Aymeric sighs and settles back a little, loosening his grip now that she seems calmed. "You sound like Estinien. Just because he's a little rough around the edges doesn't mean he doesn't deserve a pretty name. I always feel sorry for the…" He gives a slightly helpless shrug of his shoulders, watching as she extends one hand slowly, carefully not looking directly at the housecat. To his surprise, this is far more effective than other visitors effusive attempts at praise and lavishing attention is, and slowly, the old tom creeps closer, sniffing at her fingertips. She keeps her eyes still turned more to him than the cat, gaze sweeping for, he hopes, any sign of further injuries, as the idea of a woman in his bed staring so intently is a bit distracting without that excuse.

Her luck continues - or maybe knowledge? - and in short order, his cat is headbutting her hand as she scritches under his chin gently. She shifts to sit up a bit more and he does the same with somewhat a greater deal of caution in his movements. "He knows he's not allowed into the bedrooms, which means he takes any opportunity to sneak in. My mother always insisted that household pets were not to be allowed into the sleeping areas, probably because she thought I'd stay up half the night spoiling them. So I take great care to keep the doors closed. Estinien, however, tends to fail to properly latch doors behind him, which Snowflake invariably will take advantage of." 

"How very like a cat," Kohanya murmurs, and he can hear the teasing in her voice, "Sneaking into places they've decided need them and making a mess of things." She gives a rather innocent smile and starts to reach a hand out, and Aymeric can sense a weak stirring of aether and curls her fingers around hers, squelching it before it fully blooms.

"None of that, I beg you, it til it is confirmed you have recovered enough to heal. I do not think I am yet salved of soul enough to hear one of Estinien's blistering dressings-down on my foolishness and have it compounded by a second on your own as well." The knight is far from surprised at the protesting wrinkle of her nose, but it does at least stop her, and with a quiet huff, she lets her hand fall, using it instead of coax Snowflake into cuddling in her lap. Moving with some delicacy given his ongoing soreness, he settles himself as comfortably as possible against the headboard and pillows, resolving himself to the surreal experience of sitting, clothed, tucked beneath the sheets of his own bed with the Warrior of Light, in quiet discussion. Giving in to the lure of the opportunity to study her more openly, he does so, tracing the fall of deep purple hair, the almost pure white stripes that curl the edges of her face, the smattering of freckles and sunburn over her nose and cheeks. Even after weeks in Coerthas, she finds enough sun that it hasn't faded entirely. 

He is still staring when the door opens. Estinien steps in, still wearing his night clothes, and he sets a tray of tea and food down on the dresser top, growling. "Both of you damned fools are awake already? It's barely even false dawn. After taking such a beating, I hear sleep is good for you." He snags something from off the tray and stalks towards the bed. When he reaches it, he opens his hand, proffering the potion cradled within to Kohanya with a challenging look. "You swiving well better not have tried to heal the bastard without taking one of these. Get the furry hell-raiser out of the way and drink this."

The scholar's face twists into a grimace at the sight of the cloudy pink liquid in the flask, and she then glances up at Estinien through her lashes, attempting to plead silently. From his position comfortably far away from having to take any healing draughts, it takes more effort than Aymeric would care to admit to keep from showing his amusement. He does not expect her to be successful, and indeed, she is not. If she somehow _had_ been, he would have insisted anyway. When Estinien's eyes narrow and he starts to bare his teeth, the miqo'te's shoulders slump and she gently unseats Snowflake and moves to take the potion, grimly popping the cork and downing it in a single rapid swig that ends in her using the back of her hand to scrub the taste from her lips in disgust.

Still making small grimaces from time to time, the short woman turns her gaze back to Estinien and half-asks, half-demands, "My codex, please." He retrieves the book from her abandoned bag, but does not hand it over promptly when he returns, silver hair falling roughly around his face as he looks at her thoughtfully. 

"Alphinaud asks politely before healing, kitten. Don't you think you ought to do the same?" It was impossible for Aymeric to deny that it was intriguing to watch the sulk that briefly curled her lips, followed by the warm glow of a blush before she turned to him, clearly intending to obey. _They're different around each other, just a little… he's gentler but openly demanding, and she's far easier to read._

He was distracted from his thoughts when she does speak, voice calm, but a slight hint of humor at the situation softening her expression, words always a little odd sounding to his ears. "Lo-" Kohayna cuts herself off, glancing sidelong back towards the looming dragoon, and corrects herself as she continues, "Aymeric. Would you be so kind as to allow me to _finally_ make a proper attempt at healing some of your wounds?"

In the background, Estinien clears his throat. When Aymeric looks to see the cause, he raises both brows. The darker haired man raises both back in return, then sighs, reading it well enough. "I see that you prefer for both of us to speak informally. Kohanya, then. Yes, you may do whatever you wish to me."

He slightly regrets his words when she turns a rather alarming shade of red, quickly sitting up straight and turning to retrieve her magical tome from the dragoon. Using it to shield her face, the woman sketches a quick sigil over an open page with her fingers, and the familiar spirit of her faerie companion appears in a spray of glittering sparkles. Although nothing is audible, as the tiny spirit bends at the waist, her face turned to Kohanya's, it is clear that the two were in some sort of communication. There is another splash of light, this time moving from the sprite to the arcanist, converging on her like lightning to a rod. A comparison that seems even more apt a second later, when her hand flickers in the patterns of another sigil and aether suddenly courses through Aymeric like a river. It is nothing like the familiar healing that Alphinaud had cast, the cool drafts that would seek out problems one by one and slowly nudge each back into rightness. Kohanya's power is hot and cold at once, and seems to pervade into a dozen places in his body, not nudging, but insisting instead, trying to repair deep wounds and superficial all at once. When she's done, he gasps for a second, tasting cinnamon, and stares, his ice-blue eyes wide. 

Estinien's hands are now resting on the miqo'te healer's shoulders, and he looks irrationally proud as he leans over her, examining the knight closely. "Well. That is quite an improvement. Not complete, but she's already extensively and grumpily explained to me before as to why that's not always possible." Her chin lifts, slightly, and Aymeric can see Estinien's fingers tracing gentle circles against one shoulder. "I would still wish we could have a dozen of her on the battlefield. It's incredible."

The knight glances down the open neck of his shirt, wondering at the extent of improvement. It's true that not all the bruises and scrapes are gone, but there is no question he can move far easier. Almost certainly even walk well enough to hide in public that he's still recovering. "Fair miraculous." 

"I can do more, please, just give me a -" Even as she offers, the dragoon's fingers tighten on her shoulders in warning, and Amyeric reaches to gently close the book over her hands.

"Nay. I am well enough, and I know you and Estinien fought hard to rescue me from my foolishness. Please, I would not forgive myself if either of you is neglected or overtaxed for my sake." Setting the codex aside, Kohanya then presses a hand against his chest, not quite a shove as it turns into her fingers tightening in the fabric.

"Aymeric. You… noble, idealistic, hopeful _idiot_ … We went in there for your sake. Don't you think…" The pale-skinned mage shakes her head, breath coming out in a rush, then her weight presses forward on that hand, and he finds himself supporting himself and her as she tosses herself into a tight hug, burrows herself in to tuck her head under his chin like the cat she resembles, "I'm so glad you were still alive. _We're_ so glad you survived. All of us." There's a quiet rustle of fabric, then the bed shifts, Aymeric's eyes opening to find that the third party to this surreal morning has seated himself as well. Despite the lingering physical pain, the sense of failure that still weighs on him, and more than anything else, the burning shame at his foolish optimism and the death it caused of a good man, he finds that Estinien _is_ right. It helps, a little, to not be alone, to have someone able to show open friendship and caring, to have the last remaining person from his younger life who still lives and loves him there and watching with steady eyes. _Finding the most unorthodox method he can to try and soften the pain despite his own sharp edges._

"Aymeric? If you want, you are welcome to call me 'Anya in private. It's what my dearest friends use." The scholar's voice is soft with warmth, the nickname given like an offering to reassure of her good intentions and trustworthiness; _I have seen you at your weakest, here, let me show you one of the holes in my own armor._ She finally releases her grip, settling back to sit straight again. There's a sudden irritable rumble of offense in the background and Estinien looms forward to scowl down at her.

"What, only he gets the right to call you by a name _friends_ use?" His voice has just a bit of tension, as if he's not quite sure if he's teasing or actually nervous.

She shakes her head, then smirks, one sharp edged tooth briefly denting her lower lip. "Yes, because only _you_ get to call me kitten without finding your bed full of stinging insects, or briar thorns, or worse." Her voice is one part challenge and one part dangled bait, because how could anyone resist asking after that?

Estinien is still frowning, but he takes the lure. "... What, precisely, have I been calling you in my ignorance?" He glances across to Aymeric, hoping for gentler enlightenment, but the knight shakes his head. 

"When you call an adult Keeper a kitten, you are implying…" Kohanya looks to Aymeric as well, in appeal. "I forget the term you use for it. When you have a romantic partner who is very stupid and useless, but extremely pretty to the eyes, as a show of status?"

It's hard to be sure if the sudden thread of strangled restraint in the Lord Commander's voice is that he's scandalized or that he's trying not to laugh. ".... A trophy spouse. Oh _fury,_ Estinien, please tell me you have not…"

Before he can even finish asking, Estinien protests, over-loud and face buried in long-fingered hands, "Only around Alphinaud and Iceheart, and now you!"

"Of whom, only Alphinaud knows it to be a gross error in manners, and he both knows how rude the things you _openly_ call people you like are, and that I have shown before that I am willing to strenuously correct someone making that error if need be." The miqo'te scholar looks somewhere between smug and soothing, at least in expression, but her tail is flicking at the end the way a house cat tracking down a rat does. "So please don't stop, it will hurt my feelings. I would be dreadfully worried if you started being polite to me."

The dragoon growls softly, color still high in his cheeks. "I assure you, right now, the things I want to do to you are _very far_ from polite, although possibly from what you'd enjoy either." In response, she simply laughs, and transfers the focus of her need to hold and touch for comfort, arms wrapping around the silver-haired elezen's shoulders. She doesn't hold him anywhere near as long, just enough to feel him start to soften.

After that, she settles back, face calmer, the storms and teasing both settling into a quiet thoughtfulness. "Thank you, Estinien. This did help."


	12. Holding Warmth Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiraling in closer and starting to set the boundaries of the dance floor. NSFW interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yeah, NSFW, and shorter, but adding this with what comes right after in one chapter was gonna be too much tonal contrast, for sure. So enjoy? I guess?

Kohanya returns in the evening, not to stay this time, but bearing information from Manor Fortemps, as well as healing supplies, and a small packet of papers from Lucia, still sealed shut. The latter she leaves propped up on a table near the fire, explaining to both him and Estinien, "She says it can at least wait til morning. Tomorrow will be hard enough. The burial is planned for then." 

There's a brief and heavy pause before Aymeric finds himself promising quietly, "We will be there. We can do no less, and you have seen that I am well enough."

"I am not entirely sure on that part," Kohanya says mildly, moving now to settle to sit on the chaise with the two men, her legs crossed delicately at the ankles, "But I am sure that arguing it will be exasperating and likely ineffective in the end, so I will abstain, so long as you agree to let me examine the remaining wounds and at least use non-magical methods to attend to them tonight, so I will know how much to worry on the morrow. Are we in agreement?" Her face is serene, but it takes little effort for the Lord Commander to detect the intensity in her wine-hued eyes, the slight strain of tension at the corners of the soft curves of her mouth. She hides things better than Estinien, but it's an expressive face.

His lingering shame and pain at the recent betrayal and the nagging tendency to want to feel that he _deserves_ to keep some of the suffering makes him want to say no. The more rational parts of him, thankfully, knows better, with the reminders of ongoing faith his friends have given him this morning, and Estinien has provided throughout the day, guarding over him in his gruff, prickly way. Swallowing his pride, Aymeric gives a small nod. "Of course, my friend. From what I understand, however, it has been long enough now that the magical methods would do little good anyway, so I beg of you, preserve yourself and I will accept what understanding you have of the chirurgeon's art."

There's a very small smirk tugging at her lips, the reason for which becomes clear a moment later when she goes to collect the supplies and returns, standing before him and ordering, with a great deal more amusement than a chirurgeon normally shows, "You should be warned I learned a lot of this from Eos. For now, however, off with the shirt and coat. I have to actually see injuries to be able to treat them, right?" He finds himself blushing even before Estinien's rough bark of laughter next to him, the slightly taller man reaching over to ruffle his hair. 

"Well, you heard the kitten. She'll just sulk if you ignore her." Disheveled, injured, and warmed by the camaraderie despite his embarrassment, Aymeric dutifully removes and folds his coat and shirt, leaving him bared to the waist. He also indulges himself in several brief fantasies of how exactly he's going to get his _dear friend_ back for this later, before he realizes what a very poor choice that path of thought is to go down when clad in nothing but trousers and socks. Kohanya guides him to sit at the foot of the chaise, so she can move around him easily, and he does his best to endure stoically as she begins the all too thorough process of examining his body.

The lingering pain makes this a little easier than it might be otherwise, because having her so close, gentle fingertips lifting and prodding, stopping now and then to work in a salve or cream, or to untie and replace one of the earlier, less expertly applied bandages, is a subtle torment of its own. It's enough that he can feel her warmth, see the kindness and sorrow in her eyes, the gentle protectiveness of her movements. In contrast, when he looks away, he inevitably finds Estinien looming close, not interfering, just watching both of them with an intensity that draws every line in his form taut. She takes her time, and he does not know how long passes before the scholar's small form straightens slightly, Kohanya's slim-fingered hand cupping over his cheek and touching a lingering bruise there with the faintest of brushes. "Is there more hidden elsewhere? I can tell it was… thorough." Her gaze seems to deepen, growing dark and a little wild. "You didn't tell them whatever they wanted to know, did you?" It's phrased as a question, but the certainty of the answer is already there in her voice, in pride and sorrow. He does not want to say out loud that all he did was keep their names from the Ward, hers, Estinien's, the Leveilleur boy, the Fortemps… protecting them was the least he could do after making the choice to take that risk. So he evades the answer, turning his head slightly to press a light kiss against the palm of her hand, hoping the slightly illicit but courtly gesture will divert from both lines of inquiry.

He forgets that she's no Ishgardian maiden, trained to titter and avoid even the faintest hint of the carnal. When he looks up at her through soot-dark lashes, letting his gaze smolder a little, she colors prettily, and he thinks for a moment that he has her offset enough to give up… then her brows draw together ever so slightly and she chides, "Are you so worried for your virtue around the wild cat that you're trying to scare me away, Aymeric?"

Estinien is all too willing to be the voice of his darker urges again as he laughs and corrects her. "No, he's worried for _your_ virtue, kitten. Or maybe that I'll be offended if he too obviously enjoys your attention." He steps closer, moving to sit directly at Aymeric's back, his voice soft and breath stirring the crystal dangling from one ear as he leans even nearer. "He forgets that he already has my trust and loyalty utterly, so he is welcome to yours as well, if you choose to offer it." He's pressed so close that even if he had wanted to, there would be nowhere for Aymeric to go, and hearing the dragoon speak what is for him tantamount to an open declaration and invitation is enough that he is surprised that his heart remembers to keep beating.

Her hand is still warm and soft on his cheek when she leans over his shoulder to kiss Estinien, taking her time about it, and swaying in enough that Amyeric finds himself curling his own hands around her waist to keep her upright enough that he doesn't end up with his face full of something more embarrassing than the honeysuckle-and-cinnamon scented strands of her hair. It should be awkward, humiliating even. And perhaps there is a trace of that, some fragment of trying to feel what he _should_ , but more strongly, he finds that he feels trusted, drawn into a circle of warmth he didn't know existed. When Kohanya pulls back, her other hand joins the first, fingertips caressing his cheeks, and behind him, he can feel Estinien's lips against the back of his head. She studies his eyes, then kisses him, lips soft and warm, the touch of them sweet as honey and headier than mead, and on breaking the contact, asks softly, "And if I offered you loyalty too, would you take it, even knowing it was a sundered and shared thing?"

_Would he… oh, yes, no matter how many times he was asked, or how small the piece, yes._ Aymeric swallows heavily, letting his weight settle back against the dragoon behind him, reminds himself of the things he can be sure of, and dares to feel hope again. "Yes. Especially knowing that, knowing that you understand the threads of duty and existing love that bind me." He can feel Estinien's rough exhalation at his choice of words, but he doesn't argue it. It gives a touch more reality to the moment, binds him to the certainty that he is with these _people_ , not their titles, nor is he his, not the Azure Dragoon, the Lord Commander, the Warrior of Light. Instead, they exist in a small world, a sheltered place where for a little while, they can be the lost boy who became a fearsome defender, the child of shame who learned to prove himself through both strength and gentleness, the wild and isolated girl who opened her heart to every call for help. They all exist on a balance of facade and truth, the armor outside and the tender hearts within. Swallowing, he uses his hands on 'Anya's waist to pull her forward again, pull til she does topple against him, laughing, and he leans back into Estinien's reassuring presence and catches his hand into her hair to guide her to kiss him again. This time, he kisses her the way he's wanted to since he first recognized the woman beneath the warrior, saw bravery and vulnerability in that complicated knot that he knew from his other love, that makes his heart cry out to gather them close, be a shield for them. He is fierce, he knows, and tries to temper it a little, not push too much, but she makes a soft sound of contentment into his mouth and he knows there's no need.

When the kiss ends, her smile is partially pure and adoring, and just enough sinful to remind him that he's settled, bare-chested, leaning against his lover as she watches him. Her hands smooth along the lines of his shoulders, tracing the muscles in a way that has none of Estinien's evasive refusal to admit his appreciation, but instead is slow and fascinated. When her gaze lifts to meet his, it is instantly obvious that her pupils are already slightly blown, lustrously dark and shining with desire in the surrounding pools of wine. Suddenly the worries about injuries and what she might find searching for them seems a far more distant concern than it did just a few moments ago. There's a soft huskiness to her voice as she asks, "Will you let me finish checking your wounds, then, my lord, or are you still too shy?"

Even if he was, which he at this moment very much is not, Estinien's hands are twining around him from behind, sliding into his waistband to find and loosen the fastening, the other elezen's breath hot and demanding against his ear as he murmurs lowly, "I'll make sure it's worth your while to be the one who listens for once…" Which is not _completely fair_ , in the past, they did their share of finding a balance of demand and demurity, but usually, his desire to feel trusted and Estinien's to pretend he is just _enduring_ instead of how obviously he is _needing_ shapes their encounters.

Drawing in a rather weak breath for a moment, he lets go with one hand to twist it back and draw the dragoon closer by hooking it into the other man's hair. "I may be gifted in matters of debate, but I do not find myself terribly inclined to make use of such skills against either of you at the moment, when you seem so terribly pleased with yourselves. Please, finish your ministrations." It seems like the instant he gives agreement, two sets of hands are already plucking demandingly at his trousers, and despite the heat of the moment, he laughs, lifting his hips up a little so that the miqo'te woman can pull them off. She's quick to take his socks as well, leaving bare toes cold against the floor. Other places remain warmer, though - she's left him the fairly scant covering of smallclothes, which are growing less comfortable by the moment with Estinien's arms still girdling his waist, fingertips digging into the muscles of his side and keeping him clutched close. The dragoon's form is quite heated as well, those lips tracing his ear and nipping along it lightly. 

He can imagine Estinien's dark gaze on the scholar as a mirror of his own as she settles down to kneel between his legs, incongruous clad in a gown of deep green rather than her usual robes, clearly not having really expected to do much healing of the magical sort. She brings the medical kit with her, and at first, her touch is soft and light, beginning at his feet, working in a thorough check for lingering bruises and swelling, then dragging slowly along his ankles, and up first one calf, then the other. The closeness of her, the faint aura of body heat, is distracting enough, but when she turns to one knee, her breath washing along it as she leans in close, he realizes the low, shaky sound he hears is his own. Hearing it makes her ears perk up, and she beams, leaning in to kiss the kneecap in question, then the one on the other side. Settling her hands on his thighs, she promises, "Just a little more to check over… you _are_ still wounded, you wouldn't want me putting you at risk by doing something unwise, would you?"

In fact, the things he would like her -- would like _both of them_ \-- to be doing to him right now are exceptionally unwise and he doesn't care in the least. He is struggling to maintain his patience, however, although it is sorely tested when Estinien takes a moment to suck an ear tip into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue before he notes, almost casually, "Judging from what I've seen so far, she wouldn't actually object at all if you just grabbed her and demanded what you wanted. Isn't that right, kitten?" She looks up and her fingertips press down hard against his thighs, trembling slightly, and Aymeric is almost concerned until he sees the hot flush over her cheeks and the wet sheen from where her tongue washed her lips. 

"Just because I reacted to you holding my wrist--" She's cut off when one of the hands that had been around his waist darts out, cupping the back of her head, and Estinien pulls her in close, til she's held just an ilm or so away from the tautly tented fabric of Aymeric's smallclothes. He finds himself holding his breath to try and keep from… what, he's not sure. Scaring her? Imitating the dragoon and pulling her closer? Admitting his wants? He can see those long fingers, so familiar to him, slowly tightening in the strands of hair between them, until they give a firm tug and Kohanya sways forward slightly with a quiet moan. The sound and movement jolt through him like a flash of levin, illuminating something his mind has been sliding around but not fully seen, and he finds himself groaning as well, a soft sound of anticipation. It's enough to embolden her, and with Estinien's hand still knotted in her hair, guiding, her fingers tug fabric down roughly, dragging it away so his length can bob free. Any time that might have been wasted being self-conscious is lost when she immediately curls those slim digits around the stiff width of him, leans to rub her cheek against the velvety skin and learn the texture of it. It's an intimate, surprisingly tender gesture, and he sinks his fingers into her hair as well, more gently, one at her temple, one slipping around to curl over the hand already cupping the back of her head. 

Resolving to do his best to enjoy the moment, Aymeric lets out a slow breath, forcing himself to lean back into Estinien's increasingly tense form as he watches her. He's fairly sure he's not the only one rather _affected_ right now, but the angle at which the dragoon sits against him prevents certainty. It's far from the foremost thought on his mind in any case, as the small woman shifts her weight, fingers gliding over flesh gone hard and aching, angling him til she can trace the pink flash of her tongue over the very tip of him, tasting delicately. Apparently, he meets with approval, because there's a faint little happy hum before another wash of tongue in a wider circle, trying to wet the entire head of him. He realizes likely why a moment later when she takes him into her mouth; the sudden and immediate _heat_ of it, slickly wet, the way her fingers tighten further down his cock to stroke higher and lower in erratic waves as she lets her lips bob, learning the way he fills her mouth, that she can use her lips to tease along the ridged edge, move her tongue in darting swirls. 

The only thing keeping him from acting like an adolescent again and giving in to the need to fuck up into that warmth and pleasure is that Estinien's arm is _still_ locked around his waist, preventing it, and he growls in frustration. The answering low chuckle is accompanied by a shift of chapped lips to his neck followed by a sharp nip and an admonition. "You're in recovery, _Lord Commander._ You relax and let her do her work."

Silently, Aymeric swears revenge for this later, but since nothing has been done about his hands, he tightens his grip, ever so slightly but increasing as time goes on, as he speaks to her, knowing his voice is dark with his desire and need. "If she keeps teasing that eagerly, I might break before she gets any _work_ done." Her gaze flicks up to meet his through lashes and the increasingly tangled strands of dark hair and remains there, almost challenging as she takes the advice and slides him deeper, til he swears he's almost in her Halone-damned _throat_ , and she's moaning in excitement as well, grip on parts of his cock she can't manage to swallow yet almost painfully tight. She holds there, long enough he can see the strain, then gasps around him, tight grip of lips parting and almost instantly pressing back into place as she regains a little air. Shuddering in response, Aymeric lets his head fall back to rest against Estinien's shoulder, trying to keep from panting too loudly as she starts to find a rhythm, deep strokes that seem like they're trying to swallow him whole between shallower ones to use tongue and lips to focus to near over-stimulation around the throbbing flare of the tip. He uses his hands to guide her, pull her up when he thinks she might need air, drag her down to force more of him into the glorious feel of her lips and mouth and throat when he can't bear a second more without it.

He's determined to last, to savor this moment, and is thwarted all too soon when it becomes apparent he's not the only one who is finding self-control a struggle. The hand he's been pressing hard into the Warrior's head under his manages to work loose, only to curl around his shaft on top of hers, and then Estinien is guiding Kohanya into the best rhythm to work him, a dizzying mix of familiar speed and patterns and the unfamiliar pressure of a new hand, the ongoing demand of her mouth, the way she suckles at the tip of him eagerly as his lovers stroke him off. Even holding off for a short while becomes an almost impossible challenge in control, but he's never been a man to give in easily, and he holds out for as long as possible before it all finally breaks. Even held tightly, his hips flex along with the muscles of thighs and belly, convulsing, and he feels himself twitching in their grip and the surge of heat as pleasure smashes through him like the edge of a storm, leaving him raw and gasping, hands almost tearing at the woman's' hair as he floods her mouth. 

It's too late to wonder if that was a mistake, but he's fairly sure not, as she continues to swirl her tongue around his still unslackened flesh, only pulling free when she's left him cleaned and unmarked by his own release. When she finally looks back up to them, licking her lips, he has to swallow, and he hears Estinien curse behind him, "Swiving hells, I may actually regret letting her do that for you first." It breaks the tension, and then he's laughing, breathless and unbelieving, his touch going from tight to gentle, stroking and soothing, lost in the surprise joy and _comfort_ of the moment. A moment later, he hears answering laughter, turns his head to meet the dragoon's lips in an awkwardly angled kiss before he's pulled back around and Kohanya's lips are on his, tasting unmistakably of _himself_ , her arms wrapping around them both in a tangle of warmth and love.

When she breaks the kiss, Aymeric starts to try and smooth down the mess his hands have made of her hair, unable to keep a brief blush from lighting warm in his face. "Would I be overly demanding if I expressed my desire to find a way to return your favor, injured or not?" The open affection and warmth on her face is a balm in and of itself; he has learned to be sure of Estinien, but it's not due to his clarity of expression. Unfortunately, it's still accompanied by a slight shake of her head, deep wine eyes lifted to the chronometer.

"I promise some time as soon as it can be managed, but…" For a moment, the ghost of sorrow flickers over Kohanya's face, and reality starts to sink back into the brief respite pleasure and closeness has given.

"But there are things to be done, and hiding away is all too brief a respite. I do understand, my dear." Aymeric lets reassurance fill his voice, watching as it and the endearment let her relax a little again, a slight smile curling her lips as the woman moves to retrieve his scattered clothing and settle it on his lap. The small chore done, she leans in, kissing him softly for a scant few breaths.

"Thank you. I am looking forward to it." Kohanya retrieves the medical kit she brought, then returns to share a tender kiss with Estinien as well, even if he growls at her a little for it. The dragoon stands, taking the kit from her hands. 

"I'll see you out, and let Aymeric… reorder himself." The words are accompanied by a smirk and a light shove the silver-haired man's hand against his shoulder in rough affection. All too soon, both have slipped out, and Aymeric is left alone to redress, bemused and wondering.


	13. Funerals and Futures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chance to breathe before the pursuit; breaking frozen ground and frozen hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... So there's not much on Coerthan funerals out there? Hopefully what I made up works to be at least passably sensible. A bit of a short one, but some are. Also, Aymeric actually behaves in a kitchen.

In contrast to a warmer night, the morning dawns gray and infinitely chill, Coerthan to the very core of it, at least as Coerthas is known now. Estinien glances out the window and grimaces, preparing for a rather frozen vigil. Tradition expects for a knight to be greeted with full military honors at the graveside, which means his armor, even if it is currently somewhat discolored by traditional standards. He finds a brush among the detritus of proper grooming on Aymeric's dresser and sets to work on his hair. It won't be visible, but Haurchefant deserves the full effort, so rare for him to make. After all... 

His hand stills as he realizes that the last time his hair was tended to beyond a brisk washing was the evening the Lord Commander had gone to the Vault to confront his father, when Kohanya had sat beside him in Fortemps Manor and soothed her worries finger-combing his hair until Haurchefant had interrupted, full of determination and humor. Before another night came, he would fall, rescuing one of Estinien's lovers and standing between the other and a death meant for them instead. Distantly, he is aware of his hand trembling amidst the sudden drowning rush of mingled guilt and gratitude that chokes him with its power, overwhelming. Then a hand comes to rest over his, gently retrieving the brush, and lips ghost over the back of an ear.

"Feel it and let it go, my friend. I am here and well, she is safe. This was a great loss, but the fault is not yours." There's no need to ask how the other man knew what he was thinking; over a decade of fighting back to back and friendship, sometimes more, meant that much of what passes between them has long since stopped requiring words. Usually to his relief and Aymeric's frustration. He takes a few slow, even breaths as the knight takes over the hair brushing, letting the seething roil of intense emotion slowly calm enough that he can slip back into the semblance of normalcy. 

"The benefit is, even if so. Gratitude and sorrow is an unpleasant mix." Estinien stands, reaching for his helm, aware of Aymeric's gaze tracking him in the mirror the whole while. Rather roughly, he shoves it down to hide his features, clasping it into place and refusing to care when he pinches and catches strands of hair, pulling them out. "I hate funerals. I'll wait for you in the foyer. Try not to waste too long primping."

\------

  
  


Bitter and bracing, the winds do as winter winds will, knifing into the metal of armor and warm layers beneath, bearing the chill of the grave down to the skin below. It rarely seems as appropriate as it does now. Beneath Aymeric's watchful auspice, Estinien finds they arrive almost painfully early, standing some distance back beneath the howling clouds as the many knights and guardsmen from Camp Dragonhead loyal enough not to care about the swirling rumors and tense political situation come to pay respects. When the appointed time is reached, he is strangely relieved to see a priest leading the family. His own faith can be a complicated thing, but everything he knows of Haurchefant has led him to believe that he will rest better given the proper rites.

In truth, he doesn't give too much thought at first to the appearance of House Fortemps besides reassuring himself that they're all _there_ until he hears a soft breath hissing in through teeth beside him. For a second, he turns his head minutely, trying to read Aymeric's expression, the slight shocked widening of his gaze, which lingers on the two Scions. Following the line of sight, it takes a few moments for the pieces to settle into place. At first glance, all is as he'd expect, Count Edmont dressed formally, his sons each arrayed behind either shoulder in full armor, showing their respects to a fallen warrior. Alphinaud's battle gear is not so obvious, but it's clear to anyone who knows him well that he has taken his cue from Coerthan custom. The one that stands out… is Kohanya. Rather than being dressed in healer's robes, she wears a heavy Ishgardian gown in red and black, face hidden behind a grey mourning veil, as it would have been were she actually a daughter of the house. _Oh. There is no possibility that that garb is chance alone, or that the Count wasn't aware of her choice and either allowed or encouraged it._ Such apparel was beyond a display of an ally's support; it was an outright statement of deep running loyalty and kinship, clear to anyone from the Four Houses or their lackeys that the Warrior of Light considered these people her kith and kin, and her loss as deep as that of a sibling. Which means it's likely also a warning to anyone else who'd consider threatening them or pushing them aside to get to her.

Unconsciously, he shifts his weight ever so slightly closer to Aymeric's solidity beside him, aware distantly of the subtle threads of politics and power that the other man is no doubt calculating and tallying beside him, even if he has ever done his best to keep himself out of them. Let loss and mourning be loss and mourning; if nothing else, doing this means that unlike the rest of them, who must keep as stoic as soldiers, Kohanya is allowed to weep openly beneath the veil as the priest speaks the short words, one of her arms held by Alphinaud, using the shorter youth as her sole support. As the snow begins to fall, the Fortemps, born and ward, crouch to press their palms into the disturbed dirt, symbolically sealing the grave.

When she stands, he can hear her choking sobs, even at a distance, and tenses to go to her side, propriety be damned, only to be stopped by a hand against his arm. Aymeric's voice is soft, but certain, gentle with sadness. "No. She needs to be with family, right now." He tenses to argue, but sure enough, Alphinaud has been replaced by the count, the young woman and the Elezan noble, aged before his time, leaning against one another, mourning as if truly father and daughter in shared grief. For her sake, he is glad, but it still stirs old memories and the aching pain of deeper scars. After a few moments, he nods and turns to begin the trudge back to the city's gates, knowing Aymeric will follow as close as seems reasonable. He means to thoroughly partake of the Lord's wine cellars the rest of the day and forget whatever he can.

\-----

Even if Aymeric, the bastard, is right that it's better to leave things be for the night, Estinien allows himself to sink into morose growling and as much of the numbing haze of alcohol as he can manage. He wakes, head pounding, on the couch in Aymeric's study, alone but draped in warm blankets. That's probably as much kindness as he deserves, since he knows he can be rather cuttingly beastly when deep in his cups and mourning, and gathering what shreds there are of his dignity, he stalks through the house to the kitchen, starting the kettle boiling - there's still no servants, which means it too _damn early to be awake_ but he knows he needs water and food. There'll be things to be done, now. Things like tracking down and killing Thordan and the Heavens' Ward. The thought is almost cheering as he starts to rifle through the pantries, as always, seeking for anything new or particularly worthy of his attention. 

He's acquired a small stack of promising looking foodstuffs when he hears the shuffle of bared feet on the floor and turns to find Aymeric, clad in a heavyweight dressing robe of deep blue and leaning against the doorframe, his gaze still rather blurry with sleepiness. "You know, I've heard that some people handle being hung over with sleep, rather than stealing all the…" He squints at Estinien's hoard of food. "... Persimmon jam out of my pantry."

Scowling a bit, Estinien shoves a mug of hot tea and the bottle of birch syrup at the other man across the countertop. "You know I don't like funerals. Or anything else that requires standing around and being emotional. I attended, I behaved, I even _followed your advice_ , so in return, I get my pick of your food." He tosses his head to get a tangle of silver out of his eyes and starts buttering and spreading jam on slices of bread from the day before. "Are you going to make me fetch them to your office to make a plan once it's properly into the day?"

Looking all too fixedly down into the cup as he sweetens his tea, Aymeric finally says, slowly, "I would rather not, but how much time do we really have to risk sparing? That was far more than a mere political overthrow and the powers the Ward showed were nothing granted by Halone. I _am_ healing and the longer we wait, the more likely my father is to gain whatever his final goal is. Which means it is past time to face accepting that I'll wait here and send you, and them, out to find and…" For a split second, his voice catches, and it's subtle enough that only long familiarity lets Estinien hear it. "You will kill him, as needs done."

Lifting his head, the dragoon stares intently at Aymeric, food temporarily half-forgotten in his hand as he follows the unspoken signals in the Lord Commander's posture, his tone of voice, the atypically evasive gaze. He's quiet for a few breaths, then responds, voice tight and very carefully controlled, "You think there's a primal involved. And what you mean is _she_ will kill him, alone, because if that's true, she's the only one who can do so safely. Aymeric…" He stops, not sure what he wants to say, what calls to him strongest out of the rapidly snarling internal war his emotions are spiraling into, pulled in too many directions at once.

The soft regret and guilt in the response he gets helps tamp down the storm, a little bit. "There is no other choice. I don't have to feel good about doing it -- I can even hate doing it -- but it needs to be done. Once she has figured it out, she'll try and do it anyway." Aymeric's eyes lift, intensely blue and all but pleading for understanding. "Or are you going to try and convince me that the two of you did not already have every intention of killing my father and the rest of the Ward at the first opportunity?"

Estinien suddenly feels a great need to shove most of a piece of bread into his mouth to avoid answering. Which he is well aware counts as a clear enough answer on its own, but at least he didn't have to _say_ it. Taking his time with chewing and swallowing, he finally grabs another mug and settles to lean back against the counter. "Fine."

\-----

In the end, rather than being sent to bring anyone to the office, a message is dispatched to Fortemps and Estinien just trails Aymeric, feeling a bit like a nursemaid. Even in the small span of hours before Alphinaud and Kohanya arrived, it's clear enough that even healed, sitting and working is taxing to the Lord Commander, especially after the excursion yesterday. It's not enough that he feels compelled to chase Aymeric out of the office, just… clearly tiring. 

It is, perhaps, more mental exhaustion than physical, as is proven when almost immediately on the Warrior's arrival and Aymeric's greeting, Kohanya staggers slightly, hand lifting to cover her eyes in a motion that is becoming devastatingly familiar. The Echo has its hold on her, which means he can do nothing but wait and watch. Which he _hates_. Alphinaud is there already, lightly steadying her with a hand on an elbow, so there's not even an excuse to come closer than his own weakness, which is more than he can bear to reveal. Not that even those not involved here don't either know or suspect, but there are _matters of face_ at stake here.

Then Aymeric's wryly self-conscious voice makes it clear just _what_ she had been seeing, as the _damned fool_ had apparently been sitting there stewing in memory, which means she saw… His mind tries to both skate away from the worst possibility and shove it forward as it swirls between wondering if she saw merely the confrontation and "arrest" or any of the actual torture itself. The _not knowing_ prickles against the inside of his skin like thorns, tormenting, no matter how much he argues that neither she nor Aymeric seems devastated enough for it to be the latter. They're both too damn circumspect to fully rely on.

The almost painful need to _move_ , to _do something_ , to have a purpose other than just _listening_ continues as the Lord Commander calmly lays out his suspicions about primals, to Alphinaud and Lucia's shock. Kohanya seems to take it more in stride, enough so to make him suspect that Aymeric's earlier claim that she'd likely come to the same conclusion on her own ring all the truer. When she finally speaks, reassuring in a quiet voice that she intends to pursue Thordan as far as needed, the gleam of her eyes all the bloodier with determination, his own gaze flicks back to Aymeric, taking in the subtle tells of guilt and relief.

Lucia's decision to accompany the group in pursuit is a confounding -- and confusing -- factor. Most importantly, it means that _no one is staying in Ishgard to watch the damn fool's back_. Alphinaud tries to command Kohanya's attention away, but he catches her elbow on their way through the office door, hissing in a whisper, "We have to do something to make sure…" He gives a very slight tilt of his head back, seeing from the grim line of her mouth she has an idea already.

Her quick response is reassuring. "I have an idea. I'll talk to Tataru before we leave." He thinks she touches the back of his hand, but through the gauntlets, it's hard to tell, then they're through the door and listening to Alphinaud and Lucia plan visiting the Ironworks and how they're going to get to the Sea of Clouds. The pair then promptly pull the group in that direction, updating Cid, and it's not until he suggests that the airship will be ready as soon as they are that Kohanya interrupts again, her expression apologetic. "First thing in the morning? There's a few things I need to make sure are fully in order before we leave Ishgard, including making sure I actually have restocked my high altitude supplies. Is that alright with everyone?" 

The idea met with general agreement, and they all scattered to gather provisions, make plans, and otherwise prepare.


	14. Braided Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A respite before a hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Yeah, this is very much a NSFW chapter, other than the first two small scenes. You probably have an idea what you're in for, but it's a lot. Perspective shift at *****, because if he's not at the center of attention during sex, Estinien apparently throws a fit.
> 
> No thanks offered to my computer for dying or my internet for being a pill, but at least this got done, even if it slowed me down on anything else.

As soon as the group scatters from the Manufactory, Kohanya makes a direct line for the nearest intra-city aetheryte, using it to shorten her travel time to the Forgotten Knight. She knows a lot of people can't stand the things, and end up sick from using them, but for her, unless she's going huge distances, she's never found them any worse than a brief twinge of vertigo. Nymeia's grace in giving her a knack for aetherial manipulation, she supposes.

The tavern is surprisingly well attended for an early afternoon lunch crowd and she has to wait some time to be able to draw Tataru aside from her waitressing. Or more accurately, she gives in and draws a small pouch of gil out of her coat pocket and thumps it down audibly on the table, which is enough to guarantee quicker service than friendship alone might. Since both of them smile widely at that fact, she knows the other woman doesn't resent it either.

"Whatever the lunch special is, and mead, Tataru? And convince him you need five minutes off the clock to talk with me." The miqo'te flicks her eyes towards the counter, fairly sure the request will be honored. The elezen who runs the bar has always done well by them, and she's made sure to encourage that by tipping generously with whatever profits her work has brought with. Tataru's own gaze is curious, but she doesn't ask just yet. 

"Will do! Shouldn't be too long, they've got a roast and popotoes in the kitchen. I'll see a plate put together for you."

Not too long still proves to be time enough for Kohanya to study the faces and people of the room. On the whole, Hyur and Elezen alike show subtle (or not so) signs of stress and worry, marking the impact of the uncertain political situation on the populace. Most gather in tight clumps or clusters, rarely more than three or four at most. Those sitting alone are either particularly distrustful in mien, or watchful, and after a slight shift of her weight in her chair to gain a better view, she confirms that at least some of the second wear the machinst's firearms favored by Hilda's mongrels. Curious. Are they there on their own initiative, or has Grillemont hired them? It may matter, all too soon. 

When Tataru comes back with two plates and mugs -- and how she manages to balance that all so gracefully with a Lalafell's proportions is a mystery, but the woman also _juggles knives_ , so Kohanya isn't going to question it -- the miqo'te relaxes a little, nudging one of the chairs out for her friend. "Thank you. You've heard already that we're supposed to leave for the Sea of Clouds in the morning to follow up on…" Her voice trails off, all too aware of the crowd around them. Never mind that most people here know the risks of eavesdropping. Still, she's grateful when Tataru is quick to nod assent. "Did you also hear that Ser Lucia is joining us?" 

That part hasn't made it through the weave of gossip that supports the city, because Tataru blinks and raises one hand to her mouth, looking thoughtful. "That's an awful lot of our allies gone with you at once and not many still here in the city, isn't it?"

"Very much so." Kohanya says, quiet and curt, knowing she's eyeing the nearby tables, untrusting, which is probably the sort of thing a Warrior of Light _isn't_ supposed to do. She makes an effort to smooth her face back to neutrality. "Which is why I'm concerned about the safety of certain allies who are still in the city. I was wondering if you would be willing to talk to some people about making certain there are options in place other than the traditional ones, given the recent past."

Tataru's gaze is dangerously speculative, and she _knows_ part of how she'll be repaying this favor later is in sharing things that are going to make her die of embarrassment to discuss, even with _Tataru_ , but it'll be worth it for the peace of mind. "I'm a bit surprised, but you look like you might have some people in mind."

Suppressing the urge to squirm, Kohanya concentrates on her meal for a moment, ignoring the slight glow of heat against her cheeks. _This_ is what makes her blush? This is why she's an idiot. "Ah. Hilda, for one. She's shown a willingness to negotiate, and the political advantage if they had to do anything is obvious. And… There's a young nobleman at the Manufactory named Stephanivien? He's from Halleinarte, which is in our favor already, and from the way he talked my ear off about how Machinists and their weaponry should be the new future of Ishgardian defense…" She gives a small shrug of her shoulders. "Sounds like he can fight, knows people who can fight, and wants something." After a moment, the scholar adds, with a small sigh, "If you think my personal stash can't cover either one if they can't be talked around, you have my permission to promise whatever favors they want from the Warrior of Light, whether that be telling the Lord Commander how fantastic I think they are, or training with their people, or whatever else can be done. Just make sure it can wait until after --" Cutting off her initial thought, she swallows. "Until after we've dealt with everything of immediate worry, okay?"

Tataru's looking at her right now in a way that is sharper than shears, and she's almost regretting saying anything before the pink-haired woman says thoughtfully, "I can do that. You've been paying much better attention than I'd have given you credit for. Not only did you bring up the first group I would have talked to, you have a second lead." Her face suddenly splits into a brilliant grin. "Oh, it's going to be so useful if you notice more than everyone thinks you do! Don't tell anyone else, will you? I can definitely find ways to use this once we have everyone together again!" 

To be quite honest, the concept is entirely terrifying, but given that she not only likes and respects Tataru but has a healthy fear of her intellect and skills, she's quick to make sure she nods agreement. In either case, knowing that her minute friend is going to be arranging things makes the idea of leaving Aymeric alone in the city a lot less nerve-wracking, since he won't be unguarded.

\-----

After her meal if finished, satisfied that Tataru will fill her in on whatever bargains she makes later, Kohanya actually does take the time to visit the Crozier and refill her stashes of several basic supplies. Alright, possibly first aid supplies and potions in particular, but she could feel the nagging prickle of anxiety in the back of her head until she had a generous stash shoved away in her saddlebags. She spends rather longer talking with several merchants before finally purchasing a new bedroll that supposedly should be warm enough even for 'delicate southern flowers', which is a horrifying phrasing, but if she's going to be up in the clouds again and away from the joy of sleeping with a fireplace in the same room, she's going to do as much as she can to salve the pain.

Hauling her new purchases back to the manor is a fairly short walk, and after ducking into her washroom to change out of her healer's robes and change into a simpler pair of close-cut pants and an old, but still good quality bilaud of pale lavender, she sets to organizing and filling her travel packs. She leaves her door open, all too sure Alphinaud will find some excuse to wander in and question her, and for her purposes, that's just fine. The Spinner spins as she wills, but that doesn't mean she can't make certain patterns a little more likely. For now, it's a matter of cramming first a variety of smalls, then both older and newer sets of healer's robes into a bag, a nightgown, a simple trews and shirt for any down time. After a brief pause, she sneaks in a set of caster's boots, gloves, leggins, and a fancy Ishgardian-stype mage's tunic for the new skills she's been practicing lately, having remembered her brief lessons in Ul'dah before they had fled. It's not that she doesn't love being a scholar, it's just that she's been useless too much lately, of what she really wanted to do. Expanding her skill set might help.

She stands over the half-closed bag for a moment, pondering that, when she hears the soft scrape of knuckles at her door and relaxes minutely. Ah, there's the expected visitor. Without turning her head, Kohanya calls out softly as she starts tucking the oiled sack that holds her bathing and grooming items in atop her clothes, "Come on in, Alphinaud. Something on your mind?"

"How did you know that it would be me?" The younger Scion asks, curious, and she can't quite keep from smiling as she starts to tick points off on her fingers. 

"You knocked, instead of charging in in hopes you could see into my undergarment drawer, so you're not Emmanelein. Artoirel knocks louder and tends to clear his throat. Edmont wouldn't enter a young woman's bedroom without an emergency. The choices are pretty clear. Plus, you're nosy." Kohanya finally glances at him, grinning as she lashes her rapier and focus onto the pack. Alphinaud lets out a small but exasperated sigh.

"Is it so unreasonable to wonder what has made you feel that you need you actually must pack things before the very last second for once? Normally, you delay almost as much as Alisaie. Beyond that, you've _never_ asked for a delay in departure time before. That alone makes it rather likely to trigger my desire to ask you for the reason, would you not say?"

Trying to contain her smile from widening, Kohanya turns her attention to the second pack and starts filling it with the medical supplies and other assorted necessities. "Maybe I was just worried we'd leave without a chance to let Tataru know what was going on. We had a very nice lunch together, you know." She waits a few beats to see if she'll get more from Alpinaud for that claim than his utter disbelieving stare. He's a good young man, really, but he also still has a tendency towards hero worship, and her life is easier if she reminds him with gentle ribbing now and then both that she's mortal and that it's better for everyone if he wants to hit her upside the head instead of looking at her like a teenager with a crush when he thinks she's not looking. Thankfully, _that_ particular problem has rapidly started to improve once he started to get suspicions about Estinien, or maybe he just got better at hiding it?

Once she's decided he's not going to say more, she settles the new bedroll in, as well as some tightly rolled blankets. And extra socks. And gloves. She still hates Ishgard's cold, overall. "I know, you don't believe that. I'm going out, and I'll meet you at the airship in the morning. Do you _really_ want me to tell you exactly why?" Darkened red eyes shift to full meet blue, and she lets her smile turn feline and smug, watching as Alphinaud swallows and looks vaguely horrified. "You're good with words. Better than me, certainly. I'm sure you can make excuses if anyone asks." She leans to close the distance, giving the shorter man a quick hug, then bends to pick up her packs while he's still making a strangled noise of horror. "I owe you." Before he can get his bearings, she swings her cloak on over the lot, pulls the hood up, and heads for the front door.

\-----

The walk through the city towards Manor Borel is a bit longer than she'd prefer, since even if it's dark early here, it's not that much so, and despite her desire to torment Alphinaud with her shamelessness, she does actually know better than to draw excessive attention to such business as she's about. When there's finally enough of a break in traffic, she slips through to the doorway, knocking firmly. There's no guarantee that she's expected, exactly, but her instincts are relying on the likelihood that Estinien, at least, is enough of a suspicious sort by nature to have guessed. Whether he'd have bothered to share the information? That's rather less certain.

For longer than she'd like, she waits, shivering in the cold, then the door finally swings open, revealing not the manservant she half-expected, but the manor's lord himself. Pulling the cloak tighter around herself, she asks, perhaps with a bit of deliberate piteousness, "Please tell me you're going to let me come in and this isn't an unwanted visit." 

Nymeia's grace is kind and Aymeric immediately sweeps an arm around her shoulders and draws her in from the cold, perhaps sensing the faltering of the determined daring she'd let carry her through all the afternoon. His voice is warm, as is the interior of the house, and a little tension immediately slides from her shoulders. "'Anya. Of course you're welcome here, whether or not I had extended a specific invitation. Beyond that, Estinien allowed to having some suspicion you would make a visit, although I must confess I had feared he was reading overmuch into your intentions on flimsy pretense." Gaze rapidly flicking up, she catches a mirror of her own uncertainty in the slight tension of that statuesque jawline, and the slight creases of worry at the corner of warm eyes of ice blue.

Her own fears fade, at least momentarily, and she catches the hand around her shoulder in hers, draws it close enough to allow her to press a lingering kiss to the first set of knuckles, feeling color rise in her cheeks. "I made a promise. If we are to be off chasing risks, forgive me, but I am greedy enough to have believed that one more night to spend with those of my choosing was not too much to ask. And I _did_ have a few other errands to take care of, lest you intend to lecture me for my shallowness." He stops moving and she's worried for a moment, then large hands are cupping her face, turning it up as Aymeric leans down, heat suddenly in the pale blue of his gaze as he captures her mouth with his, cutting off any further reply until he's kissed her thoroughly enough and firm enough that she's breathless by the time he's done, blinking a little dazed.

"Do not doubt, _I very much want you here_. I merely meant to admit to my own fears that the circumstances before were such that you would have changed your mind in the days since, or preferred to allow this to be merely to be a matter of rare convenience. In my heart, I hoped otherwise, but it was so much to ask, and you have been through a great loss lately. I--" He cuts himself off, and the hints of insecurity are back in his gaze, even if he keeps his hold on her, as if he's trying to push himself past something familiar. She frowns minutely, trying to suppress the urge to look back deeper into the manor.

"Aymeric." She lets her affection color her voice, turns her head enough to brush a kiss to the base of one thumb. "I lost my dearest friend, and yes, it still hurts like an open wound. But my draw to you was a fact long before that, and I oft wondered if it might become more than just the love between friends. Given the difference between kissing you and Haurchefant, I think the answer was clear enough."

That definitely makes him flush as he straightens, starts to take her bags and set them aside, shifting the cloak from her shoulders. "I had wondered to some extent about that as well, given how affectionately he spoke of you, especially compared to Estinien, who you actually, ah…" Grimacing, Aymeric cuts himself off politely, and she tries not to laugh. 

"Whose bed I actually share, and who I am fond of to a degree I imagine would offend him if I dared to speak of it?" She suggests in alternative, eyes gleaming gently in the dim glow of the foyer candles. Aymeric moves to hang up her cloak and she turns a bit to watch him, hands falling to clasp one another. "Some things just… feel right, in the end. The threads align, and it all falls together as it should. Estinien feels that way to me. You feel that way to me." She can see him swallow a lump in his throat before he comes back, gallantly offering her an arm to lead the way to wherever the dragoon in question still lurks.

"Having been so foolish as to dare to attempt to openly state my feelings to him or suggest that we have some sort of relationship before, I would indeed suggest that with Estinien, it is sometimes easier to just accept his incapability to be properly and openly treated with the affection he deserves." There's a definite old pain in Aymeric's voice at the advice, and she finds herself giving his arm a gentle squeeze of reassurance and wrapping her tail lightly around his waist as they walk. 

He leads the way to what she guesses is his home office or den, since they remain on the ground floor. When he opens the door and draws her in, she decides it must basically be the first, if rather more pleasant of an office than his one at the Congregation, given that the desk is situated near to a roaring fire, there's a set of well padded and comfortable chairs, and a large couch that is draped in blankets and suspiciously indented in a way that suggest it gets slept on more than anyone actually just sits on it. Certainly, Estinien seems to have foregone it in favor of perching on the edge of the desk like some sort of gargoyle, dressed casually as well. Well, in comparison to Aymeric, who still looks like a nobleman, it would qualify as extremely casual, as the pants he has on have been visibly patched several times and while the laced grey shirt is still passable, the combination looks like he half-stole his outfit from Aymeric's closet. Which, if she's to be honest, is entirely possible.

It's not precisely that Estinien perks up when they enter the room; arguably, his posture doesn't change significantly at all, but there's the sense of energy rising and unfurling. Unwinding herself from her light grip on Aymeric, she moves towards him, drawn as ever by that inner instinct and the increasing intensity in his gaze on hers. As soon as she's near enough to reach, he unfolds himself in a lunge to drag her nearer, making her almost stumble across the floor so she has to brace her hands on his shoulders to keep from falling. Her skin tingles as she feels a rush of aether enfold her like vast wings at the same time, and she blinks at the dragoon in surprise, before realizing she doesn't think he has any awareness it's happening. A further surprise comes when he tugs insistently, tightening his grip until she's fully leaning in against his muscled form and his face presses into her hair. Voice gruff, he speaks, quiet but clear. "I could not talk to you yesterday, but my sympathies. I know funerals are difficult." 

For Estinien, it's a downright eloquent speech. The simple admission of his sharing her pain is enough that she just sags into him for a few long seconds, appreciating the closeness and support, then there's a softly cleared throat behind them and she flushes, realizing Aymeric's been left waiting with his infinite patience. As she straightens, she pauses to breathe against the dragoon's ear, "Arrangements were made for a guard." There is a minute relaxation of his form, imperceptible if she were not pressed so close, and the protective mantling of his aether calms as well. When she straightens fully, she expects him to let go, but instead, he keeps her clasped close, although one hand slips down to shamelessly grab her bottom. When she makes a startled noise of indignation, Estinien just grins.

"I've never seen you in pants yet, you know." His gaze flicks up, meeting the other man's, with a strange blend of challenge and teasing affection. "How's the view from back there?" She tries to scowl, but it's hard to keep the expression for long when he's idly kneading his hand, fingertips sometimes perilously close to the base of her tail. She tries to turn her head enough to catch Aymeric's expression, but every time she does, Estinien leans in to nip at her ear or neck, and the end result becomes that focus is growing rapidly difficult. Huffing out a breath, she pushes lightly against his shoulders, even as she hears footsteps coming nearer behind her. 

*****

The moment he has the miqo'te in his arms, Estinien realizes his error in judgement. He'd thought he'd accepted Aymeric's advice to give her time after the funeral, but as she draws her breath in and settles against him like he's the sole thing keeping her upright, all those possessive instincts wake into screaming cacophony, rushing through his blood with the conflicting desires to take and shield, claim and protect. It doesn't help that given her usual fussiness about the cold, the tight pants and close-laced bilaud look almost scandalous in contrast, which is part of the reason that when he hears Aymeric's soft murmur of reminder he can't resist the urge to test what she feels like in them. The other part, of course, is that so long as Aymeric isn't _right near_ , part of him still snarls and wants to keep her close and all his own, never mind that it's far too late for that now, never mind that his more rational mind knows that he could never truly push Aymeric away, and never mind the deepest core of him that whispers that what he _really wants_ , what he always truly wants is for Aymeric to snap his constant self-imposed limits and truly mark and claim him and everything he owns, and his inner heart secretly includes her in that. So instead, he just feeds challenge and lure into his gaze and does everything he can to keep Kohanya's attention fully on _him_ for the moment. Let him suffer feeling like the ignored one, if only for a few seconds.

When the dark haired man draws close he smolders up at him through lashes and lightly tangled bangs, knowing the fight is still in his gaze as he clutches his mate tighter, even as she shoves against him gently in silent scolding for the behavior. Then, blessedly, a broad hand is sliding through his hair, lightly threading between the strands at the nape of his neck before gripping there firmly. A heady shudder ripples from that grip down to his toes, and Estinien relaxes, the dominance in the gesture enough to calm some of his aggression. It's clear the woman in his arms feels it too, as she blinks at the sudden shiver and follows the line of Aymeric's arm, then a soft laugh bubbles past his ear before she leans in and lightly nips the edge, her teeth scraping the edge gently. Her voice is quiet, enough so he's unsure if it will carry to both of them or not. "Is that why you recognized me, my vicious one?" Making a soft sound that might be agreement, he shifts his head, finding a spot near the base of her neck that's too bare and bites down firmly, enough to make her gasp and half-startle, leaning back into the knight's body behind her.

That hand still casually gripping his hair as a reminder to be polite, Aymeric leans down, his other hand cupping Kohanya's cheek and drawing her into a lingering, open-mouthed kiss. His inner dragon half-stirs, then feeling the ongoing presence of that gentle strength, settles back to lurk in acceptance. Then the dark-haired man straightens and looks down at both of them, a wicked gleam in the winter blue of his eyes. "I was unable to enjoy the sight of you before, 'Anya, which I still regret, and since Estinien seems to be rather greedy at the moment, would you mind if I asked him to show you off for me?" She blinks, soft and startled, then alights with heat in a blush that runs over her cheeks and down her neck as she nods acceptance.

Drawing back a little, Aymeric settles into the desk chair, and leans back, fingers interlaced, his gaze hooded and heated the whole while. Unable to keep from smirking when he feels a slight tremor in Kohanya's form as well, Estinien turns her in his grip, the miqo'te's smaller form moved easily til he can draw her to lean back against his chest. Wrapping hands around her waist at first, he leans to nuzzle her neck, using his chin and nose to nudge hair back behind her shoulders til he can nip once more, shameless in leaving a trail of red marks in his wake. Either she'll heal them or have to explain them, and either is fine by him. He lets his fingers wander, until he finds the laces to the bilaud, and he starts to pluck at the bow determinedly.

It occurs all too quickly that maybe _this_ step would have been easier done where he could see what he was doing, and after a few moments fumbling, he growls and catches Amyeric's amused smile. "Oh, shut it, just undo the damned knot for me." 'Anya is biting down on her lower lip trying to keep from laughing, as the knightly lord shifts in his seat long enough to gently pry the knot that Estinien has no doubt managed to just get tightened loose. Determined to regain control at least from one of them, the dragoon hooks fingers into the first few crosses of the laces and tugs with a firm demand until he feels them sliding out of order, the shirt starting to gape open. It's opportunity enough to drag the neckline aside to bare Kohanya's shoulder to him, or at least the upper curve, and he promptly sinks teeth down into her skin, sucking as he does so to raise another dark bruise. She cries out and squirms, muttering a soft curse, and he smirks against the trapped flesh and continues undoing laces. When they're finally fully freed, he lifts his eyes, taking in the sight of the Lord Commander watching them intently, eyes all but alight as they watch the bilaud parting to show the valley between breasts and a stretch of belly. It's hard to be sure, but Estinien thinks there's a bit of color in his face. 

Even if Aymeric can't look away from the darker hue of Estinien's hands against the Warrior's paleness as he slides one up and under the still partially concealing fabric, curving around one breast and squeezing possessively, the dragoon can't look away from him, at the already widened pupils and slightly parted lips. He smirks, starting to kiss a trail along Kohanya's shoulder as he eases the bilaud off and down her arms, balling it in one hand at the end and tossing it towards the knight. With breasts fully bared now, he finds himself eager to claim both, large hands covering to lightly squeeze, then fingers curving to pinch and roll at pink nipples, pulling them into stiffness under his grip even as he pulls her tighter to him. When her head falls back to his shoulder and she moans, he turns enough to catch her mouth with his, swallowing down that sound and the ones that follow as his touches strengthen, grow harder and more demanding. His focus shifts, narrowing down to devouring her with his mouth and tormenting with hands, until she's shifting restlessly where she's held against him, weight moving from foot to foot as she presses her thighs together. Truthfully, he's quite happy to continue teasing, but a low voice interrupts his reverie, thickened with desire and rich with command. "The rest of her clothing as well." 

He shouldn't be amused that Kohanya's almost as quick to shift into motion at that as he is, but it's true all the same, especially when she squirms around enough to unlace her boots and kick them off, socks following. Before she can pull pants off with likely equal speed, he guides the scholar back into the circle of his arms, briefly catching her hands as he murmurs, "Relax. Keep your eyes on Aymeric." Of course, she looks back at him at the command, but then realizing what she's doing, returns to her eyes to the knight with a sharp increase in blush. Settling her to lean against his chest and the desk once more, Estinien finds that he does the same, watching them being watched as he loosens the fastenings at her waist, pausing from time to time to tease fingertips or nails along already bare flesh and make her jolt charmingly at the sensation. Soon, he can curl fingers into the fabric, hook the smalls under at the same time, and start to gradually ease them down over her hips. Despite his own words, he's eager to see the reaction, and it's worth it; both of their breathing is increasing to match the obviously rapid pace of Aymeric's, and when he makes a low sound of approval when the clothes are dragged down to start showing the soft thatch of pubic hair, Kohanya audibly whines. A few inches more, and gravity and a little shove does the rest, other than her needing to step free when it all pools around her ankles.

Eyes of midnight and dried blood gaze, wait for the lord's next command as he swallows. "I think it would be for the best to relocate to the bedroom." Not wanting to allow anyone a chance to get shy, Estinien hops down from the edge of the desk, grinning, and easily scoops the tiny miqo'te up into his arms, cradling her to his chest in a bridal carry. There's an indignant squeak when he does so, and a faint protest a second later.

"I am quite capable of walking even when naked, you know."

Countering, he notes, "You haven't felt the stone hallways here on bare feet. Trust me, being carried is a gift. If you'll lead the way…" He lets his voice trail off suggestively and returns his gaze to Aymeric's already standing form as he swings into motion.

The halls are blessedly empty; he's not really sure if the servants are just smart enough to stay well away when he and Aymeric are both around or if they've actually been let off for the evening. In the end, the reason matters less than the fact that it takes little time to reach the second floor, other than that _both_ of the others apparently feel that jumping to the central landing and then to the top of the stairs while carrying the Warrior of Light is somehow "less safe" than taking the stairs normally. A claim he refuses to dignify with a response, just letting the fretting roll off of him until they're inside Aymeric's room and he cheerfully shoves Kohanya into the other man's arms. "Fine, if you're going to fuss, you hold onto her. I'm overdressed anyway." 

As soon as his hands are free, he shucks his clothes -- leaving them on the floor, Aymeric can complain _later_ , and goes to shove more wood on the fire. Possibly with a bit more emphasis on crouching and his movements than is strictly necessary, but if the Lord Commander is going to go about _watching_ , he wants a little appreciation of his own. Given that by the time he turns back, Kohanya is on her feet and they're both staring at him, eyes darkened and intense, he considers that a good start. 

Loping back to the other two, he wraps arms back around the miqo'te woman from behind, using her head as a chinrest as he considers Aymeric. "Speaking of overdressed, won't you join everyone else?" 

A soft rumble of laughter resonates through Kohanya's chest, and she argues softly. "Unlike you, not everyone is impatient to bare every scar they have for admiration, and you hardly gave him any time." 

Aymeric is giving both of them baleful looks as he starts to undo his own layers. Unlike anything that had the poor fortune of being removed by Estinien, _his_ clothing is neatly placed by the hamper, and when he turns back, it's clear that the display earlier is still having more than enough of an effect. He's also apparently not forgotten what role he's claimed in the evening, despite the tolerance of the ribbing. "I actually am of the belief that the demonstration hasn't quite gone as far as I'd intended yet." His eyes lower to half lidded and he sweeps a hand towards the bed, teeth flashing in a brief feral grin. "While I have definite plans, I consider that they will not be hindered, and likely helped, if I have the chance to watch 'Anya come apart in your hands, Estinien. I trust neither of you would object to that."

_Oh._ Estinien has some sneaking suspicion that making sure her pleasure comes first is at least in some small part Aymeric getting revenge for the last time, since the other man knows he can become _impatient_ when made to wait. That said, it's hardly an order he objects to at the least. He lopes over to the bed, faster than either of the others and settles himself dead center of the headboard, seated and leaning back into the pillows. He then holds arms out to Kohanya, greedy for closeness. "Come here. Back against me. If our Lord Commander wants a show, I imagine I can remind him a bit of how this works." He glances sidelong through his lashes, spies the slight momentary tension of a jaw before Aymeric lets go of the jibe in the moment.

The scholar crawls up the mattress from the foot of the bed, stopping before she listens to him to punctuate the last words with a lingering kiss, and he takes the opportunity to drag her lower lip between his teeth, leaving it darkened and gently swollen. She then scolds, although her voice is warm, "And this is why I say you're particularly terrible to the people you actually like." He shrugs, unrepentant, as she shifts to cuddle back in against his chest and between his parted legs. One factor he hadn't considered was the tail; she makes a mild noise of annoyance, then shifts enough to let the furred length curl over and up, brushing his side. It's a good thing he's not ticklish. 

The mattress sinks slightly when Aymeric joins them, settling close enough that his knee lightly touches Estinien's hip. The always beautiful lines of his face still are aglow with nearly predatory excitement, and the dragoon is happy to feed it, reaching down and hooking Kohanya's legs over his knees to spread them. She gasps at the sudden feeling of exposure, hands creasing the covers as she grips the rich fabric, and Estinien's original intent to give Aymeric a few seconds to stare is lost as he eagerly curls one hand over her folds, two fingers tracing the lines of her slit, raking through the dampened curls in exploration. Quickly, though, he narrows in on his original goal, callused fingertips finding the apex where they meet and drawing slow, light circles. As expected and desired, she gasps, arching up into his hand, shoulder blades digging back into his chest as she tries to get more pressure, and he pulls back slightly, keeping the touch delicate for now.

The teasing makes the miqo'te growl, and there's a matching low rumble from Aymeric, causing him to glance sidelong in that direction. "You _wanted_ to watch me torment her, even if you didn't use those exact words." He keeps his grazing touches fleeting, although a bit more focused, then draws his other hand up, gathering her hair to tuck it behind her neck, between their bodies. Which gives him more canvas to attack with lips and teeth, as he likes it, doing his damndest to cover the curve of one shoulder with hickeys and bite marks as he slowly increases the directness, waiting until Kohanya's breathing has become desperate panting interspersed with needy moans, her hips still rolling to try and get _more_. 

Estinien only relents when he feels Aymeric shift beside him, pressing closer, length of leg to leg, and when the raven-haired man gives in to his own needs, even a little, and leans in to capture those cries, kissing the scholar with ragged intensity, he finally dips fingers down and presses them up into her, finding her channel already more than slick enough to take the two at once. Oh, it might not have been purely _easy_ , since she stiffens a bit against him and he can hear a strangled groan escape from the kiss, but it doesn't slow the hungry little leaps her hips make, or the way her walls flutter against the invading digits as he presses deeper, curling til he finds a spot that makes her nearly scream when he combines it with a hard drag of thumb against her clit.

With a smug rumble of approval, he drags his mouth to the junction where her neck slides into her shoulder and bites down, hard, as he switches from teasing to _relentless_ , all pressure and steady motion now. He feels skin tenting under the hard clench of teeth, near to breaking, and growls deeper, the urge to _mark_ strengthening by the second. When she jerks back against him on the next brush, a muffled wail disappearing into Aymeric's claiming lips on hers, her heat tightening white hot and slickly squeezing around his fingers, he gives in to the urge fully, a slight wash of copper over his tongue as he imprints his teeth fully into her body. 

Easing back as she continues to tremble, he slows his fingers, although not by much, tongue flickering over the spots where he broke her skin. For a moment, his mind flickers to the scar on Kohanya's arm, and he wonders if they can keep her _occupied_ long enough to not heal them til it marks. While his intent is to see if she'll break again, he's prevented when Aymeric breaks the kiss and strokes hair back from the edge of her face, his voice deep and thick with need, enough that Estinien shivers minutely with memories of hearing that tone before. "Enough. I can only be strong so long." Broad fingers, sword-callused, curl around Estinien's wrist and gently draw it away, with a soft gasp on the part of Kohanya, and a lower rumble on behalf of the dragoon. Aymeric smiles, a slow, hungry thing, and leans to rest his cheek against the woman's even as the hand curls to stroke where Estinien's was, a bit tentative and a touch reverent. The dragoon starts to draw back, and he finds his gaze caught in brilliant pale blue, and swallows thickly as Aymeric's full attention turns to him for a moment. "Do you have a preference to express here?"

His gaze turns to Kohanya, since he knows the end call here is hers, and that roaring instinct towards _claim_ that she incites floods his veins again, making him shift restlessly. "There's still oil in the nightstand, right? If the kitten is willing to play…" He watches her brow crease a little, then a half-heartbeat later, her eyes widen as she processes his meaning. Then they fill with _hunger_ and he feels a jolt run straight to the very root of him and breathes out shakily. He was expecting demurement or dubious acceptance, but the eagerness, well, that was something else entirely. Narrowing his gaze slightly, he asks to clarify, "Have you tried that before?" She gives a small shake of head, and it's a mingled rush of concern -- not that he'd _admit to that_ \-- and a glee he feels almost equally bad about, because the opportunity to be _first_ definitely pleases that instinctive, possessive side of him.

Then Aymeric, _damn his bastard bones_ , speaks up from where he's started to press to the miqo'te's side, fingertips still idly teasing her, "I assure you, Estinien should be quite knowledgeable about making sure you have a pleasant time, my dear." 

For a moment, the dragoon just glares, finally hissing as he turns to the nightstand, "If this wasn't your own bed, I'd shove you out of it for that. I still might in the middle of the night. I make no promises." He steadfastly ignores the soft swell of laughter behind him as he retrieves the oil from exactly the spot it _always is_ , of course, and when he turns he finds the pair shifted to lie stretched out on the mattress, Aymeric nearer to the far edge, and with Kohanya turned to face him. His hand is tracing a slow trail down her side, fingers like the glow of summer sunlight on the snow in contrast to how pale she is. Estinien shakes his head to chase off the poetic image -- he _really_ is spending too much time around book-softened fools -- and resettles himself by the woman's back. Pausing to press a brief kiss to the nape of her neck, pretending it's not tenderness but merely a chance to admire the marks he's left, he props himself lightly up on one elbow. The angle lets him gaze across her curved form, to watch Aymeric kissing her, one hand cradling her cheek to keep it from the mattress. His other hand is more migratory, from hip to side, sometimes cupping at a breast and thumbing a nipple. 

As Aymeric occupies most of her attention, Estinien traces the line of her spine, a more delicate touch than he might be aware of, nails lingering over a raised line that crosses it near the small of her back. He didn't ask about it before, and right now, she's a bit occupied, but it is sizable. Momentarily, a frown curls his lips, but it's a matter for another time, and he moves on, til he's to the base of her tail. Curiously, he drags a fingertip around the spot where fur fades into flesh, and is pleased when the result is that she gasps and arcs forward against Aymeric's body. Even if that's not his final goal, he has to linger there for awhile, stroking the base and the first few inches, testing results further. It reminds him of teasing her neck, the way she shivers and squirms around in easy response. 

Fairly soon, though, an insistent twitch from his own desire reminds me that he's been putting his own pleasure off for a long time and there are goals to keep in mind here. Despite his indignance at Aymeric's words earlier, he wants to be careful, starting with dragging nails down over the curve of Kohanya's bottom, then drawing slow patterns over the buttocks, letting them gradually graze further and further into the crease between the two over time. The response is definitely positive even from the start, soft wiggles and shifts of hips, and quiet cooing moans that he can hear best when Aymeric's lips leave her mouth to nip at the furred triangles of her ears, or to add his own soft markings to those already patterned over her neck. 

After opening the glass vial, Estinien drips a generous amount over the fingers of his right hand, smirking as he sees one of her ears flick back towards him at the sound. Leaning forward, he lays a kiss between her shoulder blades as he slips his hand between her haunches, slickened fingers sliding til they find and graze across the ring of muscle he seeks. Hearing her gasp, he lays a pattern of more kisses over her back as he strokes in slow, relaxing circles, spotting a similar rhythm when Aymeric finally reaches back to the junction of her thighs, offering additional pleasure and distraction. Carefully, the dragoon eases the first joint of his finger into her, pleased when it elicits a breathless moan but no signs of discomfort. Slow and circling, he works deeper, until he can thrust that finger into her slowly with the only response eager panting and slow rolls of her hips in time with his motions, riding their hands. 

Drawing in a ragged breath as there's another demanding jump from his cock, complaining about the ache from having to wait, he shoves back against the need as much as he can. The patience required is its own form of exquisite agony, as he works the second finger in, starts to spread and scissor them as he moves, stretching the scholar's opening further. More than once, he finds he has to wrap his free hand around his cock and sneak in a few hard, rough pumps to try and sate the edge, at least until he glances up once as he lets go and catches Aymeric's smug, heavily hooded eyes watching him and ablaze with desire over Kohanya's shoulder. Groaning in frustration, Estinien swallows and tests with a third finger, almost sobbing with relief when it slides in after just a little more work, her rim tight around the digits. Stroking slowly inside her, he asks, voice thick with his own lust and need, "Are you ready to try, 'Anya?"

He suspects she's as needy as he is -- as he certainly _hopes_ Aymeric is, having to wait as well -- by how quickly she nods, her voice soft and husky, "Yes, _please_ , I want… need... " She swallows, and he watches the blush creep over her cheeks, down her neck. "Please. I'm more than ready to have both of you in me." Admitting as much makes her shudder, wracked by a long tremor, and _oh_ but that makes that animal hunger in him thrash through his veins in excitement. Keeping the thinnest edge of restraint on his eagerness, he dumps more of the oil into his hand, fists his cock again, smearing pre and the slippery fluid over it before pressing nearer, molding himself to her back. With as much care as he can manage, he settles into place, pressing the tip of himself to her rim, then pushing it slowly. Kohanya makes a ragged, low sound, but not pained, and presses her face into Aymeric's neck, breathing in rapid pants of the scent of hm as she adapts to the sensation. Gently, Estinien strokes her back and sides, carefully avoiding the gaze of his other partner because if he has to acknowledge that he's reminded of his own first experience with Aymeric he will _spontaneously combust_ and she deserves better than that. When she relaxes again, he eases in the rest of the way, a harsh grunt echoing as she grips tight around the base of his length, squeezing him in heat and pressure and the overwhelming sensation of _joining_ , of being _connected_. Drawing deep, shaking breaths through his nose to maintain control, he finally looks over her shoulder, giving Aymeric a small nod. 

The knight cups the scholar's face in his hands, kissing her again, softer than the last few have been, and when their lips part, he murmurs all but against hers, "Hook your leg up over my hip." Even as he's speaking, Aymeric is reaching down, helping her position herself, legs and hips intertwining with her until he can notch up to press the generous width and length of his shaft against her sex, moaning at the sudden contact. Estinien just grits his teeth, struggling to stay still and patient as Aymeric reaches to adjust himself, her own hand assisting, helping hold her open to him, til they find the right angle and with a surge of hips, the head of his cock presses into the grasping clutch of her, no doubt made more so by the pressure of already being filled in part. And oh, _fucking hells_ , as he pushes deeper, Estinien can feel very ilm of him through the heat of her flesh, as if it's almost sliding against him directly. Whimpering in desperation, he hides his face into her hair, grabbing at Kohanya's shoulders and holding her tight against him, as if he can somehow use the heat and nearness of her to ground him enough to endure this much sensation, this much _closeness_.

When Aymeric's hips finally still, buried deeply, the three of them all root to crux, the soft murmured _"Oh, merciful heavens"_ that the scholar breathes out, reverent and quavering with pure desire all at once, it's too much, and with an animal growl, Estinien gives in and shifts his hips, trying to keep a tiny thread of his control, not just rut into her wildly, but every breath moves Aymeric's hardness against his, buffered by flame and water, slick and volcanic, a pressure and trembling grip of a body wracked in almost unendurable pleasure. Some distant corner of him that still remembers words and sense is aware that Aymeric is trapped the same, a litany of whispered prayer and obscenities falling from his lips in that dark velvet voice as he bucks against her, against him, the three moving not in tandem but some increasingly wild, primeval rhythm demanded by bodies and hearts. Everything fades, but the utter ubiquity of them in his senses, the scents of sandalwood and amber, honeysuckle, sweat and arousal, the heat of skin and the way flesh slides and rubs on flesh, the taste of cinnamon and a hint of cloves, ghostlike in his mouth, the indistinguishable and constant sounds of pleasure and adoration. 

All too soon, it's all too much, being utterly lost in the rare prism of trust, the safety and warmth he'd never admit to craving, and mortal bodies reach their limits. Hips speed up, moving with a ragged staccato pumping that may leave her sore and aching in the morning, especially when the pressure of movement against draws a harder series of thrusts against it, braiding together until with a final drive in and a bitten off curse, Estinien fells himself fall over the edge, everything washed to a haze of dark for a heartbeat as he spills, flooding the confines that hold him. A moment later, a deep, satisfied groan as Aymeric does the same, a jolt of sensation that is almost too much to endure as he pants, trying to regain thought. Worse, then, is when their raven-haired maestro manages to maintain enough sense to _reach_ between, a few strokes of demanding fingers, likely not masterful but sure and demanding, pull Kohanya after them, the commander's warm and sated voice asking her to, "Join us, love, let me see you scream again." And she does, throaty and ragged with gasping, body trapped in a long series of waving shudders that he half thinks will slay _him_ , with how affecting they are on his overstimulated body.

For a short while, at least, all three lie, breathing shallow and slowly deepening, sliding back into the normal shape of the world. Too soon, it's easier to slide himself free and back away, and Estinien murmuring gruffly, "Moment. 'll get some towels." For what good it'll do, he's pretty sure the sheets are going to smell like sex no matter what, but maybe that's not all bad.

When he returns, bearing not just the promised towels but a glass carafe of water and glass retrieved from the sideboard, Aymeric and Kohanya have seperated a little, rolled a few inches away to gain some coolness. Maybe the fire hadn't needed to be quite _that_ high, but he did ensure they never regretted not being hidden by blankets, and isn't that worth something? He sets the carafe on the nightstand, nodding to it, his voice still roughened. "Figured someone might be thirsty." A damp cloth is passed across to the knight, and with his own mess already taken care of, he lightly touches the scholar's shoulder, checking her awareness. "'Anya?" She blinks at him, still soft and dazed, and then smiles, so warm it almost hurts to look at it, and holds a hand out to him. Quickly, he shoves the other damp cloth into it, coughing slightly. "That'll get you clean enough to get to the facilities." Despite that, he presses the towel down near her hips, grateful she hasn't rolled from her side, so there's no real spread yet, although there's very definite shining trails on her haunches and thighs that he tries not to stare at. 

Quickly, as she starts to wipe herself and then slips away to clean fully, he leans back across the bed to grab the water, filling the glass and downing half of it in a single gulp. He then offers it to Aymeric silently, unsurprised when he eyes the cup dubiously and carefully turns it a little before taking more delicate sips. For a few minutes, it becomes a shuffle of contented quiet in trips back and forth and the carafe slowly drained as they pass the glass around, until finally the empty vessel is replaced on the nightstand with a quiet clink. After a glance through the windows at the position of the stars and moon, the dragoon warns quietly, "We should try for sleep. Some of us have travel in the morning, and I'd rather eat before we leave. Plus, if you look sad enough at Aymeric, even if the staff isn't here yet, he actually makes a decent morning fry up." There's an indignant huff from the man in question, answered by a soft laugh from Kohanya, but the general agreement leads until the candles are dimmed, covers are thrown back (the top one, in truth, tossed to the very foot of the bed to snag around the posts), and bodies tucked beneath.

Allowing himself the respite of being able to to sprawl and reach warm, welcoming skin no matter how far his limbs reach, Estinien sighs and slips down towards sleep, thoughts lingering on the idea of how sweet it could be if he was ever able to relax like this regularly, his duties carried out, his world finally safe and his watch finished.


	15. Holding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In pursuit and perhaps in frustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, the content is still slowly being ground out amidst the chaos. I just keep multitasking worse than usual so it gets hard to get one thing ready to post. So have a SFW chapter as we work our way forward through the story and I drop hints about slight complications to this particular version of Eorzea.

As the airship's movement creates the endless rush of whistling wind, Kohanya slings herself down to sit braced against one of the sides, letting the solid wood buffer some of the sound from sensitive ears. From her shelter, she watches Lucia and Alpinaud pace the deck while Cid looks effortlessly confident and tries to ignore her own faint aches and the slight scratchiness of the scarf she's wrapped around her neck and tucked into her coat and robe. Every now and then, Eos _still_ comes back to buzz bitterly in her ears, the busybody deeply offended that she wasn't summoned before sleep and before several of the marks the scarf hides had time to set enough to not heal away easily. The scholar herself minds a lot less. 

Eyes half-lidding and turning up to the clouds rushing by, she casts her mind back to the morning. Breakfast had ended up being a pastry grabbed in a scramble after realizing how late they had all managed to sleep, dawn fully rising, and part of her heart still jolts with a pang at the shocked pleasure in Aymeric's face when she'd still made the time to share a lingering kiss before she left. Then again, given that Estinien had stalked out the door with little more to either of them after leaving bed then a brusque nod and a warning that he had to deal with the Knights Dragoon after a call came in on his linkpearl, she suspects that affection outside of the bedchamber is an unfortunate rarity in the Lord Commander's life. And, for that matter, she supposes her own, given the choices she's made. Briefly, she can feel a foolish smile tugging her lips up, and she quickly tries to hide it again. Alpinaud, at least, is pretty sure of what she was up to, but she doesn't need to _confirm_ it by sitting around daydreaming.

\-----

She should have spent the damn time on the airship daydreaming after all. Of _course_ there turns out to be complications in the Sea of Clouds. She wants to be surprised by the Vanu having a primal tormenting them, but she's long past being surprised by _that_. It was more of a shock that the Moogles in the Churning Mists hadn't had one, honestly. That, if nothing else, might be the one thing she's grateful to Hraesvelgr for. The presence of Garlean troops is a great deal more concerning in that she had allowed herself to begin to believe that here, at least, perhaps the distance was enough to make a place safe from them. Perhaps that was true in Ishgard itself, but with troops as near as this, with a Legate? No, it seemed best not to rely on it. The weight of that realization pulls on her like a lead weight, a growling frustration low in her belly. This land has become her _home_ , she has found a _family_ here, and it was bad enough that Coerthas was embroiled in their own ancient war. That now the war swallowing all nations was here as well, and it may have been dragged here in her wake, is brutally distressing, a harsh reality she doesn't want to think about too long. The Scions hunt primals, and they are hunted by the Garlean Empire, it seems. If this is the weaving of her threads? She hates it.

Admittedly, these Garleans _claim_ to be hunting the Archbishop Thordan, but even if she didn't have every intent of killing him herself, primal or not, she definitely wouldn't trust the Garleans to do the job correctly, after what happened with Omega. No, letting them get to a possible primal is not a solution she can tolerate. By the time it turns out she's going to have to kill the _Vanu's_ primal to stop Thordan, her head is throbbing, and all the more so when Cid gets the idea to use islands to fish for the island-swallowing, flying whale. Kohanya is absolutely _certain_ that this is _precisely_ the sort of insane idea that Estinien is trying to get her to argue against, and she doesn't have any damn notion of what they could do better, so instead she finds she's just pursuing an endless stream of near panic in her head.

Placing linkpearl calls to get together enough capable adventurers to be able to actually carry out Cid's plan takes up most of the rest of the afternoon and early evening, and Kohanya is beyond grateful when night comes and she learns that, if nothing else, the improved bed roll alone would have been worth the delay in leaving. She actually _is_ somewhat warm when she sleeps.

\-----

Felling the primal is much as she expects, at least. Tiring, difficult, leaving her aching, but in the end, something that has become if not precisely routine, at least familiar. The key is there, to Azys Lla, and then… Then there's an Ascian, and Thordan. Not a familiar Ascian either, because while the robes are always concealing, she can easily differentiate the timbre of a female voice, and this is surely one. 

It all goes wrong. The Ascian woman is strong enough, or the blessing of light currently weak enough, that there's nothing she can do when the shadows lash out but to _survive_ it, to watch with needles traversing her skin and mind as Thordan opens the key and he and the Ward leave with it. When she's left alone on the floating island, exhausted and weak and aching, and _burning_ inside with rage, she thinks it won't get any worse, at least.

**_Why would you ever think like that?_** The Garleans aren't just Imperial troops… they're with the _Emperor_. Suddenly, imitating Estinien's habit of cursing is becoming increasingly tempting. Of all the things to drive them away, it might not be surprising that it's Lucia, as the woman is competent in a way that's slightly terrifying and deeply impressive, but her possession of magitek armor is a shock.

A shock that soon makes sense. Lucia is _Garlean_ , and not just that, she's the sister of the woman she fought and slew in the Castrum Meridianum. Cid and Alphinaud accept it easily, and if she might not, well… Aymeric knew, and Aymeric trusts her. Estinien too, she thinks, reflecting back to not so long ago, at least on the trust front. Still, it takes some of the enjoyment of watching Lucia take command out of her, at least until she has time to grow comfortable in the knowledge.

To cap off the disaster the mission has become, they can't get into Azys Lla, either. Without the key, it is guarded and barred, and the airship cannot take it. Weary and feeling defeated, in an unconscious mirror of their trip to the Sea of Clouds, Kohanya sinks back down to sit leaning against the side of the airship once more as they return to Ishgard, her head pillowed in arms crossed on lifted knees.

\-----

On their arrival in the city in the dwindling hour of sunset, the group trudges to the Congregation, enlightening Aymeric and Count Fortemps as to the success -- or rather, the lack thereof -- of their mission. It shouldn't be shameful, but if she's honest, she _does_ feel guilty about it, guilty about her failure to stop Thordan _again._ It's hard to even look at Aymeric, and she knows it's stupid but it's true all the same. At least it's a short meeting, before Cid departs to fix the airship -- _again_ \-- and Alphinaud drags her to talk to Tataru. At least that might be pleasant news, something to salve the mind before she can go hide away in her room at Fortemps Manor and soak in the tub until she stops aching. 

It _is_ good news, though, a chance to find out something about what happened to the missing Scions. It does, however, require going all the way back to Ul'dah, and once again, she finds herself at least willing to put her foot down about that. She's killed a primal, she deserves _one night of sleep_ before they move on to the next thing. It causes Alphinaud to sulk a little, but she manages to flee back to Fortemps Manor and to hide away in her bathroom, running the tub as hot as she can get it.

Kohanya's just finished rinsing her hair clean when the door opens, which was, to put it _very bluntly_ , not expected. Lacking the presence of a weapon or anything immediately useful, she settles for hurling the bar of soap nearest to her hand and lunging to grab a towel. She spins, draping the towel to mostly cover herself, and finds Estinien, still clad in his armor, trying to wipe a long smear of wet soap off of his helm's visor. It's a shock enough that she goes still, staring in confusion. "... What in the seven _hells_ are you doing in my bath?"

Scowling, the dragoon grabs another of the towels and finally just uses that to clean away the soap. She can't _see_ him glaring at her, but there's no question it's there, hidden away. "I'm _checking_ on your idiot ass, because Aymeric was going to pace a hole through the floor fretting about how you seemed 'defeated' and wouldn't look at him this evening. He wouldn't shut up about it. Since I want to _sleep_ tonight instead of listening to him worry, I said I'd make sure everything was well."

Suddenly tired, Kohanya winds the towel around herself for modesty, tucking it into place. "I'm fine. I just didn't think I'd have to deal with a second primal, and then… well, I'm sure you heard what happened from him. How do you think I feel, having Thordan _right there_ and being pathetically unable to _do anything_ after he --- he ordered -- and _Zephirin_ and--" She finds herself unable to say anything more, hands balling into increasingly tight fists in self-reproachment, nails digging into her palms viciously. When she's able to speak again, her voice is soft. "I'm ashamed, Estinien. That's all. Not of what happened before I left, of not being able to do what people expect of me, again."

Honestly, for once, she's the one grateful for the visor blocking his eyes. Her own gaze stays averted and she reaches a hand out for the towel he used on his visor. "Give me that." Instead, his gauntleted hand closes on her shoulder, pulls her close enough that he can start to roughly towel her hair dry. Glaring out from beneath, Kohanya mutters softly, "I believe I am capable of taking care of myself."

"Also apparently capable of blaming yourself needlessly. At least I can point out to Aymeric how familiar he is with _that_ particular foible." Estinien pulls the towel away, and after looking around the room, returns to press a brush into her hand. She should probably be glad he didn't try and use it, given the state of his hair half of the time. Starting to drag it through on her own, she settles to sit on the side of the tub, watching the dragoon with a certain degree of wariness.

"Can I ask a potentially unwise question?"

Even _with_ the helm and visor, she can see the way his mouth twists and his jaw tenses up at the idea. However, he was the one who told her she should be speaking up more, which puts the pressure on him to allow it. It only makes her a little bit smug when, finally, he gives a small nod of his head.

"Do you live with Aymeric?" The way he instantly goes perfectly still is enough to tell her both that the answer is 'basically yes' and that he's about to explain to her at _great length_ why that's not actually true and it means nothing and imply a great deal about how dare she ask such a thing.

"Of course not. I have a room in the barracks. I just stay there sometimes because it's easier." At this point, Kohanya is just staring at him at his attempted explanation, brush still loosely held in one hand. "The Lord Commander is a gracious host and tends to keep guest rooms ready, after all."

"Really. How odd that I've never seen one of them." The miqo'te stands again, passing the brush back across to the dragoon. "Put that away, I should get dressed. Anyway, you can go home and tell him I'll be alright, and that I'm not upset with him in any way, please? I am merely exhausted and irate with myself."

The brush is tossed back in the direction where it came back from earlier and an arm suddenly blocks her path forward, or more accurately, the fact that she's likely to have to duck around all the blasted _spikes_ on the dragoon armor to move forward. Estinien's voice is a low hiss as he bars her way. "Stop being a damnable _fool_. You and Aymeric both, what sins did I commit to have to deal with the pair of you? He will not be disappointed, the bloody man is pleased enough you came back alive and largely unharmed, as he ever has been when he has to send others into the field in his stead."

Scowling, Kohanya reaches up and finds the hinge of the visor, shoving it up to bare a bit more of the elezen's face. At least now she can watch his eyes, even if the shadows darken them fully to black. "Spoken like a man who knows this from experience. I am taking care. I brought with the most competent adventurers I could find." Which admittedly means that she'd brought with a dark knight and a few fighting folk she found reliable, and then took whatever she could get. Good help on a moment's notice is a challenge, as ever. Searching Estinien's face, spotting the slight crease of concern at the corner of his eyes, she says softly, "The next day or two is nothing dangerous. We return to Ul'dah. Tataru brought word of how we might find one of our missing friends. I assure you, as soon as I set foot in Ishgard once again, I will see word brought to you or the Commander. Is that enough?"

She is scrutinized in return, hard midnight eyes scouring her features for any hint of if not a lie, then a demurement, an attempt to avoid something. Whatever it is he finds, Estinien seems content enough, his much taller form finally bending down to briefly crush his lips roughly against hers. Like most of the time when he's aware he's expressing something clearly in the eyes of someone else, he keeps things as hard and brusque as he can, even if it's never quite as effective as they choose to let him believe. "It will have to do. Even if it's not supposed to be dangerous, take care. You've been surprised before."

The reminder is sobering, and she gives a brief nod as Estinien pulls back, then gently shoves him toward the door. "Go, before I feel tempted. I promise, I will see myself into bed promptly." 

\-----

In Ul'dah, she and Alphinaud meet up with Urianger and what few true Scions are left, mostly adventurers like her, a brief nod exchanged with the Au Ra who'd come with to deal with Bismarck before the group is brought to Marshal Tarupin for word of a discovery. If she's honest, the nature of the magic in question is different enough from her own that she's not sure she understands it as Urianger tries to explain, but here is what she does know: Y'shtola is almost definitely alive, but they need to perform miracles again to retrieve her. 

It won't be the first time.

Still, when the opportunity comes to discuss the matter with Kan-E-Senna, she's more than pleased to find she is able to demure and talk Alphinaud into bringing with Atara, the au ra dark knight, instead of herself, so she can lurk in the shadows at the Canopy until their assistance is secured. Even if she loves the trees and the peace of nature in Gridania, the proximity to her childhood home and memories always weighs heavily, which is why she had continued to avoid the city even in choosing a Grand Company, and why she gives the Maelstrom her loyalty instead. The sea is beautiful too, and less deceptive about how treacherous it is.

Not going to watch when the padjals try to retrieve Y'shtola is more than she could bear, however. Strange and wondrous as it is, they are successful, even if the Archon appears rather utterly without, ah, well, suffice to say, it's extremely difficult not to _stare_ at the stark nudity she appears in, no matter how rude that is. The strange state of her eyes, after she wakes, though… Y'shtola has always been a bit intimidating, and now, well, she's downright eerie sometimes. Still, the other miqo'te has a lead for them to follow about breaking the barrier to reaching Azys Lla. 

\-----

Although Alphinaud is eager to leave Ishgard almost immediately to seek transit to the Dravanian Hinterlands, Kohanya successfully argues for a single bell's pause so she can pick up her packs and grab something to eat. Which _actually_ means grabbing her more cold-weather oriented travel gear and then heading straight for the Congregation. Once inside, she seeks out Lucia, finding her deep in conversation with a group of the Temple Knights. Catching the Garlean woman's eyes, she holds up both hands, fingers spread, asking silently if she can steal ten minutes of time as her head tilts towards the office door. Lucia's eyes narrow thoughtfully, then she shrugs and flashes the same gesture back, clear enough in the implication of 'Fine, ten minutes, but no more'.

With a grateful nod, the scholar turns back to the office door and lifts a brow at the door guard. He raps to announce an arrival, then admits her, and she quickly paces into the room, feeling the press of time. Aymeric is seated at his desk, surrounded by paperwork, and the interruption has brought a rare expression of displeasure to his face before his head lifts eyes to see her. Kohanya watches the relief wash over him at her presence and haleness, feeling a pang of guilt as she crosses the remaining space. He's quick to rise to his feet, speaking before she can. "'Anya! You've returned. Was your mission successful?"

"It was, but we'll be leaving again immediately to chase down Y'shtola's old teacher in the Sharlayan ruins. Apparently, she might know something that will help us pursue the archbishop. However, I did give my word to keep you up to date, and…" There's a moment of hesitation, and she continues, carefully, "I was warned I rather worried you last time, and I'm sorry for that. It wasn't my intent." Slightly self-protective, she crosses her arms, gaze lingering on his face nervously. Which is truly unnecessary; Aymeric is himself, after all, and there are few people she has known more hopeful or forgiving, as the gentle smile she gets reminds her.

"So I was told, I confess both before and after, but uncertainty can be a difficult beast to fight in certain moods. Will you forgive my insisting on intervention to be certain? While he is not precisely forthcoming, Estinien conceded that he may have startled you at an inopportune moment." After a glance towards the door, Aymeric reaches across the width of the desk, catching one of her hands in his and pulling her arms to unfold again. It's a simple touch, minimal, but soothing, his thumb smoothing over the back of her palm.

"He walked in on me in the tub and didn't see the problem. He's not exactly a fan of social propriety, most of the time, for all he can speak the words when he has to." Kohanya isn't at all surprised by Aymeric's grimace and slight nod, as she can only imagine how often he's had to deal with the consequences of that over the years. She gives a gentle squeeze of his hand. "Estinien is himself, and I appreciate him as he is, as you do. However, perhaps he's not the _most_ reliable person to send to check on an emotional state?" Alright, that's teasing, a little bit, but she thinks it's fair.

The tone of his voice in return is wry, a little dry, and she knows he's taking it good naturedly. "No, but he's the only one who can sneak in effectively and who knows the full truth, so my options were limited." There's a stronger draw on her hand, and Aymeric lifts it to his lips, kissing the back of her fingers gently. "If you can, I'd rather you visit me the next time you return. If possible, since I know the restrictions of duty." A glance at the door precedes a quiet sigh. "Speaking of which, I imagine that I will have to let you depart, as I can not imagine you made it into here without Lucia warning that I am hard-pressed for time. Please, be safe, and come back to us soon, my dear."


	16. We Let it Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard one to write too. ._.; I'm sorry things are slow lately.

Alphinaud is not the only besieged by nostalgia in the next day's hard travel through the Forelands. If the going is a little easier, this time, in that most of the threats are familiar or now allied, the company is if not at all unpleasant, perhaps lacking in comparison. Kohanya genuinely cares for both Alphinaud and Y'shtola, and the younger Archon in particular, but an entire day of listening to their reminisces about Sharlayan is enough to make her long for Ysayle's dedication and the fire of light in her, for Estinien's gruff and grumpy nature and the rough comfort in it. The experience does highlight why she still feels out of place with them too often; the length of knowledge, the shared history of cities and empires, the access to things she would never have had a chance to learn. Perhaps it's unfair, but it remains hard not to cast herself into the role of the uneducated country soldier against such companions, no matter her own claims as a scholar.

They camp near the border between fore and hinter; if she clutches her traveling pack close to her chest, feeling for one of the first times in her life the pangs of sleeping in a bed empty other than herself, well, that's no business of anyone else's. Come the early light, they cross the border, and soon, meet with the goblins that have claimed the ruins. She can't claim to be completely comfortable with the way Alphinaud and Y'shtola react to the people living in the long-abandoned ruins, but even if she internally questions it, she keeps her mouth shut. Kohanya figures _that_ is an argument that has no need of happening, after all. Plus, there is a certain satisfaction in seeing both of them subject to the same inevitable series of demands to _prove_ yourself to a new community. Oh, it wastes enough of the day that they end up overnighting in Idyllshire, but that wasn't a real shock, and at least it's warm and the company is good. It makes for an easier night of sleep than the one before.

When they reach the cave of Matoya, Y'shtola's old teacher, late the next morning, Kohanya learns several things in rapid succession. Firstly, that she _adores_ Matoya, who is tart and grumbly and pokes everyone to stay on their toes. Second, that she likes Y'shtola more when reminded about her playful side, as watching her trade barbs with her old mentor helps to bring out the softer aspects that she'd appreciated when they first met. Thirdly, that if she ever needs to pick on Alphinaud in the near future, she is _definitely_ going to remind him that Matoya mistook him for a girl. 

When it turns out that the information at the aetheric converger they need is locked away in the Great Gubal Library and she has to retrieve it alone, Kohanya might have to confess to a tiny bit of hidden giddiness. She's begun to get used to feeling a bit more capable and competent on her own, if nothing else, and beyond that, that no one will make her hurry up if she sneaks peeks at a few (alright possibly a lot) of books once she's in there is a rare treat. Oh, she ends up working hard to get past all the guardians of the library, she admits, but none of them are so terrible she regrets the time or the effort. When she returns, lightly mussed and bruised but otherwise well, with Matoya’s research clutched in her arms, it's with a brilliant smile. Even Y'shtola and Alphinaud's grumbling about their hours spent doing chores for the irascible old mage don't stifle her self-satisfaction. The past days have been hard and it was soothing to feel _competent_ for once.

Alphinaud's suggestion for a power source to use with the aetheric ram is enough to rattle her from her contentment though, lips pursing as she considers the merit. Certainly, the Eye is powerful enough and it would mean Estinien accompanying them in travel again, which is rather appealing for selfish reasons. However, even the brief time when she held Hraesvelgr's own Eye they had torn from Nidhogg, she'd felt the faint allure of it, seen the way that carrying and using one might provide a dangerous temptation. Asking for it something other than the defense of Ishgard… She knows they'll grant it, in the end, but there's a guilt in taking advantage of that.

\-----

There's a slight pang in her heart, at how happy Aymeric is to see them on their return, and she has to struggle to hide her own warm smile. He is welcoming to Y'shtola too, of course, although perhaps thrown off by her almost immediate explanation -- demand, almost -- for access to the Eye, which is, after all, technically a sacred relic. Kohanya does her best not to fidget during the asking, nor offer any clear vision of her own feelings. It doesn't matter, really; the request is, in the end, meant to help him and Ishgard, so why would he deny it, no matter what private worries there may or may not be? 

Trying to shake the melancholy mood, she trails Alphinaud in his business about Ishgard, in ensuring that the Ironworks will be making repairs in good speed. When Aymeric and Estinien join them, confirming that the Eye will indeed make the journey with them, she tries to appraise both men's features through her lashes, read their moods, but it's harder than usual, with everyone carefully hiding emotions in the wake of a new challenge and with a new-to-them Scion. When there's a brief lull as Cid and Biggs begin debating over some intended upgrade or repair, she slips closer and lays a hand on Alphinaud's arm.

"I think we should ask Atara to come with us. If we get through and find what we're likely to… a second person who can't be tempered seems a wise companion to have with. I know she's been scarce since--" For a moment, her voice stumbles. "Since the Vault. But I think people will point me to her, if you'll give me leave to look." The young elezen looks up at her, lips pursing thoughtfully.

"An excellent thought. Cid will need at least the evening for repairs. If you can find her, ask her to meet us here in the morning. Otherwise, I will assist in looking further tomorrow."

She gives a quick bob of her head in agreement, eager for the chance to do something that feels more useful. She gets a few steps outside of the manufactory before a mailed hand grabs her arm and she blinks, looking back and up, finding the grip to be a familiar one as Estinien scowls down at her. "Isn't this Scion friend of yours the one the rumors call the 'Mad Dragon Lady of the Brume'?"

Kohanya lets out a soft puff of air in a slightly shamed sigh, gaze tracking up to the roofline as she argues mildly, "They only call her that because they can't tell the difference between a Steppe-born and someone who's actually touched by dragon blood and anyway, only the people up here and in the pillars do that. Those where she stays recognize all she does to help and that she's grieving." She continues to walk towards the city's main plaza as she talks, expecting that if there's some sort of lecture or opinion forthcoming, she won't shake it through something as minor as movement.

Sure enough, the dragoon stalks after her when her arm falls from his grip, a slight tension in his muscles enough to let her know he's mostly not grabbing again because of a preference for avoiding either a public confrontation or the risk of being publically seen doing something as _courtly_ as holding a lady's arm as she walks. "Whether that is the truth or not, I can not see why having someone unstable at your back when facing a threat like this is going to benefit us. If she is truly not lost to madness, but grief, it sounds like she is so far in it she won't do any good protecting you."

"She was there when I fought Bismark. Look, just… you'll see when we find her, alright?" Kohanya turns, walking backwards for a few steps to give the much taller figure what she hopes is a winning smile before she spins again. The efficacy is rather questionable, given the audible scoffing that perked ears pick up, but on this, at least, she's set in her mind. Facing primals alone is _never_ on the list of things she prefers to do and with Ysayle still off with her heretical band, Atara is the only other option, and one who is far more likely to actually be adept in combat without summoning a second primal anyway. 

It takes a few conversations to get a hold of someone either actually aware or simply willing to share where Atara is, but in the end, she manages to track the other woman down in a back alley where she's talking to a raggedly dressed woman. Motioning for Estinien to wait at the mouth of the alley, which remarkably, he actually does, she heads for the other two ladies, clearing her throat softly. While her healer's robes draw a certain distrust, she sees the Brumeling relax at the sight of her ears and tail, her reputation here not quite what Atara's is, but certainly better than an actual noble's. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but if it's not a manner of some timely concern, may I speak with Atara? I'm expecting to have need of her skills." 

That seems to be enough, as the third party quickly concludes and slips away, and Kohanya turns her gaze to the xaela Scion. "Y'shtola believes we have found a way into Azys Lla. You know what that means we're likely to face. You'll come with?" She holds her breath, but the nod that accompanies the answer is still what she expected. 

"Of course."

Simple words, if not a simple promise. For a moment, her gaze lingers on the dark knight's long since healed hand, and she smiles weakly. "We'll find Zephirin. And the rest. Come along, I think one other member of our party wants to get to an idea who you are." Which mostly means she's pretty sure Estinien is going to at best offer to spar or at worst actively pick a fight with Atara to get her measure better, but that's a minor inconvenience that can be dealt with. Her mind is already racing ahead nervously to what will come in the morning.

\------

The morning is the hardest that leaving Ishgard has ever been. No small part of that comes from her return to the manor and the choice of Count Edmont to send her with Haurchefant's shattered shield to stand for him, since he can't come himself. That hurt enough and the reminder that he'd seen her as so much hope… Kohanya has to stop in the hallway for a few minutes to regain her calm facade before moving on to the airship landing. 

That Y'shtola says words all too similar start to cut her to the bone again, but for once, Estinien's blunt rudeness is exactly the salve she needs, when he cuts off her fellow scion with the reminder that, "'Tis not for praise that we fight." It's definitely not what motivates her, given how damnably nervous it makes her and how much it makes her remember all the times she shouldn't have deserved it, and the moment where she's sure his eyes meet hers despite the visor calms her further. 

If only _that_ lasted. When he continues on in his fervency of a desire to end things and be at the heart of it, her heart sinks once more, some deep thread in her quavering as if she's near to dropping stitches in lace, as if the pattern is close to collapsing into an uncontrollable snarl. Because Y'shtola's speech? That shreds it all asunder, old fears and new, particularly that he's only going to be more foolhardy when someone who hasn't lived with the Eye as long as he has tries to tell him to be wary of it, to not falter for even a moment. 

Urianger's appearance with white auracite -- the memory of the last time she had to use it -- undercuts things further, as does Aymeric's reminder for them all to come home safely. In the end, she finds herself practically creeping into the airship, doing her best to avoid sight as she settles to sit against the walls again, every muscle tensed with nerves. She can tell she's made Atara concerned at least, since she gets a few looks from the other warrior, but she waves those off when she catches them. 

They're into the fringes of the islands of Cloud Top, and not that long away, when Estinien comes to lean against the railing, a fulm or so away. He doesn't say anything; possibly because he's spending most of his time eyeing either Y'shtola or Atara balefully, since neither has exactly endeared themselves to him so far. Still, she finds the unspoken nearness soothing and when they near the barrier, she finds a hand reaching down to pull her up to her feet. For just a heartbeat too long, Kohanya holds on, squeezing, then she steps back to let him take the Eye to the front of the ship and their experimental aetherial ram. 

The skies are green and gold and orange, not the limitless blue, not the soothing midnight, but restless and roiling, _angry_. Estinien draws forth the Eye, and she watches the eruption of sanguine and ebony, red and black like blood and dragon bone, flowing over and through him, watches with heart in her throat until he focuses it, all that power -- _so much of it_ \-- is drawn into the ram and narrowed into a intense beam. She tries not to let Y'shtola's pointed warning echo in her mind, and if she could bear to move her eyes away, she might look to the other miqo'te to try and assess her thoughts. She can't, though. Not til it's safely finished. The airship lurches forward, drives against the barrier and, after too many heartbeats delay, the barrier shatters and they're through.

The stream of furious aether from the Eye disappears in a flicker and before anyone can even draw air, something rises through the clouds below, vast and predatory, deadly. A Garlean warship -- The biggest Garlean warship she's _ever seen_ at that, that must have been tracking them, a black wolf dogging their footsteps til they broke the barrier for them. She doesn't know what she can do as Cid swings the airship in evasive patterns, missiles dancing in the air, one hand clutching her tome, one tightly braced on a railing, and Eos buzzing at a pitch that's nearly a shriek around her head. Honestly, she isn't sure how they're going to get away from this one, as missiles strike the ship, as they stagger and fall.

The defiant roar of dragon song and vast white wings whip the sky as a surge of light washes over her. Steadying herself, Kohnya recognizes Alphinaud's cry, turning her head to watch, Ysayle, diving like a falling star, guarded by wyverns, summons Shiva once more. False goddess, true friend, in flesh, she turns against the battleship and they run, _they run_ , just like she had to in Ul'dah, leaving others behind to take the attack, and all she can do is watch the divine dance lose beats against fire and magitek, watch the moment when Shiva turns from Saint to Sinner, falling into the clouds like a dying comet. A vast burst of aether scours over her soul, searing light and soothing ice, and she knows. Oh, _she knows_. Death stalks them, once again, and if Ysayle chose this doom, it makes it no less horrible as her inner self cracks a little further apart.

They land in Azys Lla safely. She supposes she should be grateful for that, as they step off the airship, and into what seems a vast hell, of stone and metal, angry aether and howling winds. She isn't.


	17. By Slow Degrees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm stressed and Azys Lla is creepy, have a hornt filled NSFW chapter. Uh. Sorry???? Forgive me.

For a small handful of them, Azys Lla is, if strange and dangerous, still a wonderland of knowledge. Cid and Biggs and Wedge are aglow with the delight of finding new things to learn and examine and fix; even Alphinaud and Y'shola have a subtler but still excited and eager gleam to their eyes, _hungry_ to be there and discover. Estinien doesn't even try to hide his dislike. Atara is much subtler about hers, but it's clear she's not thrilled either. She _hopes_ her own is not as obvious as either of theirs but wouldn't want to place bets based on the possibility. A faint haze of grief hangs over those of them who truly knew Ysayle in a lingering cloud, but there's no time, no safety for true mourning, not yet, so they press on, following the questionable guidance of an ancient and hastily repaired machine. Those from the Ironworks, at least, will remain in the dubious safety of the landing area and the airship, which leaves five of them to venture onwards, amidst bare rock and pools of strange liquids and the endlessly howling aether-tinged winds.

There's an endless barrage of malfunctioning mechanical menaces in the Alpha quadrant, and by the time they get to the first transporter, they're all splattered with oil and… whatever other horrifying things are in the local standing water. Kohanya wishes she'd been the type to wear some sort of a face covering mask, sometimes, but they do make it through, and despite doubts, take the offered transporter on to the next island. The Beta Quadrant is more and less unsettling, in its way, all eerie lights and strange, engineered creatures. That they're alive and often familiar enough but clearly were once _made_ chews away at her inner calm.

Fairly quickly, the group has to split up to deal with the _locals_. While Alphinaud tries to send her off on her own, that idea is quickly nixed and the group splits to let _each_ location have an Echo-blessed warrior. Atara departs with the two Scions and she turns her gaze to Estinien and gives him a wry smile at his visible tension and strain. "Let's see what we can do about these 'chimera'."

\-----

The barren stone of Azys Lla digs heavily into Kohanya's back, even through her robes, hair snagging and tangling against it as Estinien drives her roughly back into the cliffside they're braced against with every thrust. Not even half-undressed either, just enough that he could pull her up to wrap legs around his armored waist, free enough of himself to meld them, allow rough vent to the animal instincts he seems to feel a desperate need to follow in this strange alien place, remind them of the simpler things in life. A mailed hand covers her mouth, stifling any cries she would make so as not to draw their companions or any more of the chimeras they just eliminated.

In theory, she's watching for the latter over his shoulder as they couple, but even with angle and setting less than ideal, just the solid length of him filling her, flexed and grinding, is enough that she knows she's panting and misting breaths onto that mail, her body tensing and trembling in anticipation of a climax she's unlikely to reach before Estinien finds his. Yet that's part of the thrill; the risk, the enforced quiet, all the subtle dynamics implied in them both being willing to accept her pleasure placed secondarily for now to his needs. It might be upsetting if he truly didn't care, but she sees the need for comfort in him, here among machine and dead stone, strange creations of science and alchemy divorced from the clean nature they both prefer to seek. 

He is still clearly unsettled in this setting and the implicit admission that she is balm enough to steady him for a small handspan of bells stands for the words she knows she might never hear. Estinien makes a low, ragged sound, barely audible, and his hips start to press in short, hard, deep jumps forward, thighs flexing, and she knows what's coming, shifts minutely til her forehead rests against the chilled metal of his helm, his hand between their mouths still, and Kohanya shudders in sympathetic pleasure when with one final push that likely leaves a bruise over the small of her back, he drives in and spends.

Neither dares linger long in afterglow, and quickly, he withdraws, starts to refasten mail and leathers, while she tugs her smalls back into place, wincing a bit at the rush of wet heat dripping down as she straightens onto shaking legs. She'll do what she can for it in a few moments, but for now, she carefully surveys the area, making sure they truly are still alone, then huffs out a relieved breath. Trying to peer below the rim of the visor shielding most of Estinien's face, she asks through lips chapped by pressure against mail, "A little more at peace now, my vicious one?" There's a ghost of a smile at the affectionate nickname and he nods.

They trek back to return the others, and after a short discussion, given that the nodes indicate the likelihood that the further they travel, the more likely they are to encounter Garlean forces, the party decides to take the risk to camp for the night. Rested is, as a rule, preferable to running themselves ragged in endless battle, and there are likely to be a great many of those ahead. Tents are set up in an erratic circle, a small fire built, and a quiet span spent in soft conversation and the consumption of a simple meal. Even if Azys Lla is far from _comfortable_ , at least this moment is peaceful and familiar and pleasant.

******

Tonight, when he wakes, he's sure the nightmare wasn't his own. Lying still in his tent, Estinien listens intently, sure that some small sound must have called him out of his own rest. For a few seconds, there is only the howling winds, the quiet crackling of the fire, tended by whoever remains on watch at this hour. Then, very low, very faint, so much that he's shocked he heard it at all, much less in sleep, a soft, anguished whimper in an all too familiar voice. His hair has half-escaped the leather tie he used to try and confine it before bed, but he ignores the mess as he grabs a shirt to pull on over the pants he slept in and slips outside.

For a small mercy, of a sort, it's the damn dragon-woman awake at the fire. With the strange goggles she uses to hide her eyes, he can't read her easily, but at least she's unlikely to protest his explanation like the boy or the Scion woman might. Giving a slight movement of his head towards the next nearest tent, Estinien murmurs gruffly, "Can hear her. She's dreaming badly." Rather than bother with words -- so she's not _all_ annoying, at least -- Atara gives a slight wave of a hand in acknowledged acceptance, enough to encourage him to crouch to undo the fastening to Kohanya's tent and slip inside.

Reclosing the flap behind himself, he settles to kneel in the scrap of space next to the bedroll, giving a moment for eyes to adjust. If there was ever something to convince him that she's not quite as much of a hardened warrior as she sometimes acts, it's going to be how idiotically deeply she sleeps. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but sure enough, her face is twisted with distress, another quiet whimper bouncing off the tent walls. More careful and gentle than he wants to admit, he reaches to gently shake her shoulder, calling out her name in a low whisper. "'Anya. Wake up."

Her ears flicker, face briefly smoothing, then contorting again. Sighing tiredly, he shakes again, harder, then when she just tries to turn onto her side and away, whining, he gives in to mild frustration and pulls her over til her head rests in his lap. Apparently _that_ is enough motion to wake her, as she finally startles into alertness, eyes wide and blinking up at him in the dark in confusion. With callused fingers, he smooths hair away from her face. "You were pretty deep in your dreams, especially for one that was so seemingly unpleasant."

Making a low sound, she scrubs at her face with one hand, then captures his fingers with hers, gripping tightly enough to confirm that his belief that she was being tormented by nightmares was true. "Did I… I must have woken you. I'm sorry." It takes a moment before she frowns and thinks that through. "You weren't even… Oh, damn, did I wake everyone?" Kohanya starts to sit, face twisted in guilt, and he quickly lays his other hand onto her shoulder with a gentle pressure.

"No. Even the watch didn't hear you. Must have been a trick of the wind that I did." Estinien studies her face, the hints of ongoing exhaustion and distress. Part of him wants to ask what she was dreaming about. Part of him doesn't want to know, because either it will stir his own memories, or rouse regrets at pains that existed before he knew of her. Kohanya shudders softly and settles on her side, nuzzling her cheek against his thigh to soothe herself.

"It was hearing the wind… It howled like this, at the top of the Vault, didn't it?" The dragoon knows he's imagining being able to see the shadows in her eyes, but that doesn't stop the brief pang of guilt as he moves his hand to rub over the base of the scholar's ears, hoping to relax her back into sleep.

"I suppose it did, at that. We are not there now, though." Kohanya's head turns, lips brushing a kiss over the inside of his wrist, and Estinien draws in a briefly shaky breath, the small touch still a distraction. "If the memory is shaken, I should go."

Mouth pursing into a small moue of distress, she rolls her weight more heavily over his legs, as if to pin him into place, hands sliding over his thighs. "Mmmm… Or you could make sure I've been fully distracted from bad dreams by replacing them with better ones." Kohanya keeps gliding her hands higher, head tilted to let her look up through the shade of her bangs, expression showing both desire and a soft touch of uncertainty, despite the surprisingly clear demand. He should know better. He should have known better, many times before, and in the end, he's always weak for those he's let slip behind his walls.

Estinien is also learning better than to be sure he's always going to guess her whims well, as instead of seeking a kiss or clambering to claim his lap, she starts to unlace his pants. When he draws in a breath in a soft hiss, body already starting to rise in reaction to her eager closeness, she smiles, tracing the outline of his response with fingertips through the fabric. "Your turn to stay quiet." A goal she clearly intends to make him work for as she finishes her goal of getting his pants open, curling a hand within and over him, drawing the ever-stiffening length out for her gaze.

He doesn't know how _he_ is supposed to stay quiet when she makes that soft, pleased sound before brushing lips against the flesh cradled in her hand, Kohanya dragging them from tip to root, lightly parted, leaving a wet trail in her wake. If it wasn't impossible, he'd think she's trying to wrap her damn tongue around him on the way back up, finally closing her lips over the flared tip. Unable to stop it, he growls, faint and hungry, and buries his hands back into her hair, already mentally cursing out whatever fates she follows that makes _restraint_ ever a necessity. 

Well. Not much restraint. It's clear that the scholar is a woman on a mission, and Estinien briefly closes his eyes to consider the merits of maintaining a shred of control as she swallows, deep and eager, drawing his shaft down into her throat. Doing that turns out to be just as dangerous as _watching_ , however, given the images his memory fills in and the wet, exceptionally _lewd_ noises her mouth is making on him, and his eyes fly open, half-afraid he'll choke her with the surge of increased hardness that pulses through him.

It turns out not to be a rational fear. Oh, there's thready whimpers and ragged moans, barely audible as she keeps herself muffled with mouth sealed tight around his cock but most of the sounds are the wet slicking of flesh on flesh and the occasional ragged gasp for breath. For a small time, he tries to be patient as she explores, finds angles and rhythms, but the sensations are too much as she swallows heavily, nose pressed nearly to his belly. With a sharp gasp, he gives in to the demands of his own lusts, hips rolling up hard to rut into that wet heat, lay the most instinctive sort of claims to Kohanya's mouth, fill it utterly with himself as he roughly pulls at handfuls of purple hair, dragging her into place to take her. Her nails dig into his hips, holding him just as intently, a series of tiny sparks of pain that spice the sweetness of pleasure as she works him with relentless devotion. 

In the end he has to bite down hard enough on his lower lip to nearly split it when climax strikes with a heady rush, a triplet pattern of staccato hip pumps to fully bury him into the tight squeeze of lips and throat, struggling to contain any other sound than his ragged breathing. He forces his hands to gentle, trying to pull her back away slightly as the final pulses spend heat over her tongue. There's an undeniable tenderness at her lack of willingness to draw away, but once Estinien lifts her up enough to claim a kiss, tasting sweat and alkalinity, she relaxes, settling to lean against him, forehead to forehead after their lips part. Silently, he runs his hands over her hair, down her back, the aftermath of pleasure making the intimacy easier. After a minute or two, he murmurs softly, "Foolish woman. You chase away bad dreams by pleasing someone else?" 

"Only two particular people, and you're the one who's here." Rumbling out a quiet laugh, he drags his nose along hers til he can kiss her once more, light and gentle for once.

"Foolish still, but to my benefit. Now, though, you need to rest." He tries to pull back, but her fingers twist into the fabric of his pants, refusing to let go. "'Anya."

Dragging her lower lip through her teeth, the miqo'te looks up at him, uncertain but hopeful. "Can't you just stay and sleep here? Who's going to be offended, after all? Atara knows. Alphinaud has to have figured it out. Y'shtola knows more secrets than I can ever imagine. Who would _care_ if you just slept beside me?"

For a long few moments, he argues with himself, debates, then as she tugs at him gently, he gives in, justifying to himself that it's _only_ that it'd be annoying to have to return to the cold and the wind, and his own bedroll has long since lost any retained warmth. Even as he thinks it, he's not really sure he believes it. Still, he nods, and chivvying her back under the coverings, Estinien tucks himself in beside Kohanya, curling near to her softness and the comfort of another warm body.

\-----

Waking with a mouthful of silver hair, Kohanya coughs and supposes this is a fair price to pay for luring Estinien into her bedroll. It _is_ a great deal warmer with two people in it, and sleep was far easier when the main sound she could hear was his breathing and his heartbeat if she buried her face against his back. Remaining nestled sounds far more pleasant, but alas, the light outside is beginning to shift, which means it's time to be up to brew tea and get something to eat, so they can all go attempt to not have the threads of their fates cut short. Pulling back even slightly elicits a rather grumpy sounding rumble from Estinien as the cold air tries to rush into the gap, and the miqo'te takes a moment to drag nails up along his spine teasingly as she murmurs, "Morning." 

"At least you don't try and claim it's a _good_ morning." The dragoon's voice is an even deeper rumble as he stirs awake, slowly unfolding himself from the bedroll. He tosses her her pack once he's out and as close to standing as he can be. "Go ahead and do your bundling up, matronly kitten. I'll start breakfast if no one else has." He slips out, leaving her to dress and quickly pack.

With the short meal done, camp is quickly broken down, and they head for the Gamma Quadrant. As they were expecting, the area is swarming with Garleans. As also and unfortunately expected, they end up in conflict. Regula proves to be no easy foe, and at the end, when they reach the next conduit, a decision is made. A decision she is less than comfortable with. After a quick discussion, she and Atara are to be sent on ahead. That perhaps is not the worst of it. When Estinien snags her arm and passes over something over, he tells her, "Take the Eye. It should still hold enough energy to be of use to you. I shall join you as soon as I am able." For a long moment, she studies anything of his face she can see beneath and around the visor, feeling all the thick, bitter power of the eye in prickles all over her palm and fingers before she tucks it into her bag, a vast globe of seething hatred and longing for revenge, even still, pulling at the same dark threads in her soul from the brief contact. She will never truly understand how he has held it for so long and kept so much of himself. Tension has tightened the dragoon's mouth and jaw -- which could mean a lot of things, but in this case, she thinks is a firm mix of his worry for her and his desire to see matters with the Archbhisop settled. Unable to do more, she briefly clasps his hand, then turns to nod to her Dark Knight companion as they run for the transit and the final sector. The end is coming.


	18. Chill Thy Dreaming Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, this one hurt. I am sorry. Please be kind.
> 
> If I have not said it yet here, Atara is [Red Wyvern's](/users/RedWyvern/) WoL, used with permission in a shared world -- you may see Kohanya in her works. I owe her as well for a mild betaing of this chapter and catching at least one incident of my incoherent notes to self in my writing. <3

When she and Atara arrive in the Delta Quadrant, there is the briefest of moments when it is almost comforting, being among trees and grass again. Admittedly, the sky is still the disconcerting hue of everything here, but it feels a bit more natural. Then the _helpful_ orb informs them that the conduit they need next no longer works, and before she and Atara have even finished exchanging glances full of concern, there's a soft glimmer in the air and the reappearance of a companion who has been surprisingly reticent so far -- Midgardsormr. His directions point them onwards to one of his brood, and when she looks confused, Atara fills in for her. "The dragons and Allag have a long and not very nice history. Remember Dalamud, after all."

For a moment, the scholar winces, absently rubbing at her back, then she nods, and they begin the trek towards the centre of the floating island, fighting when they have to along the way. It feels _wrong_ to have to kill dragons to get to talk to one, but neither of them seem to see any other choice right now. Then. There she is.

Tiamat.

Vast and dark as Bahamut or Nidhogg, but there is no sense of burning rage, no fiery dooms, just a heavy weight in the air as if sorrow has made itself tangible. Slowly, they walk closer, and she sees the sheen under the light. Not dark, a blackberry-purple hue like onto her own hair as the whirling winds whip it past her vision, melding strands against scales. "Oh, sweet light… How long…" Be it the voiced words or their approach, they are noticed, and the dragon -- dragoness? -- stirs as Midgardsormr appears at her shoulder once more.

~Who cometh to this forsaken place and disturbeth my solitude? ~ The voice rings in the mind, not the ears, but there's something surprisingly feminine to it, a delicacy and a strange familiarity. Uncertain, the scholar steps a little closer, studying the vast shape as if she had some way to read her features. 

Midgardsormr is quick to answer, quick to assure, and after confirming his identity, the fatherly but minute dragon adds, ~None other. My form is such that I may journey with Hydaelyn's chosen—A mortal who desireth to end the war between man and dragon.~ Turning back to him briefly, Kohanya peers at the dragon, then across at Atara's goggle-shrouded eyes, wondering again. They haven't explicitly spoken of it, but she's increasingly sure it means both of them, no matter that he was the one who stripped her blessing away, that the first time she'd seen a beam of light -- a beam of --

A pause for two heartbeats as her eyes close tight, then she opens them, turns resolutely back to Tiamat. There is time for grief later. Having slightly lost the train of discussion, she gives a nod of assurance when he claims they want an end to the war, half-listening as Atara speaks of what she saw in the Coils, of her wish to see the dragons free of the past as well. She was not there and can not know in full, but she sees her friend's grief, sees Tiamat's, and can feel her own, woven into her veins with those who have become dear to her as the flowing blood. Slowly, the scholar picks her way over the rocky ground, til she can stretch fingertips to delicately touch the barrier around the dragoness, snatching back when her gloved hand stings at the bite of the magics, tears needling the corners of her eyes. There is nothing she can do, once again, but listen and commit the words of the dragon's history here into her heart, swollen with pity and regret for things that happened long before her birth. Tiamat's mental voice rings through her with the force of deep love and deeper loss; she can only hope to never have to experience it, beloved and children torn and sundered.

Then, oh, that word, the one that has been the marred thread through the tapestry of their lives, drawing the picture awry, tangling knots and snarling lives. _Ascian_. So long ago, they were there, and they did this, to poor Tiamat in her grief what they did to Thordan in his ambition, to Thancred in his weakness, to Ysayle in desperation. Too many, too broken, and for a moment, hate _blazes_ in her, and oh, she has tried not to let herself feel it much, but she wants them _stopped_ and she wants them _gone_ and she can not care if it makes her a terrible person. Too much has been lost already. 

She is unsure about what Tiamat says about the Gods, but she has met enough false ones, and for all she reveres Nymeia, she never intends to _call_ on her, so it shouldn't make a difference to her personally. She hopes. It hurts Kohanya far more to hear Midgardsormr's gentle plea to his child for self-forgiveness and her serene refusal. Making one's peace with waiting forever for their part in one lost… She is not sure if it is brave or terrible but having to leave Tiamat there brings tears to her eyes all the same. One last time, the miqo'te reaches to try and touch the bonds, and something flares within her, brilliant and warm. 

She _sees_ light and crystals again, she can _hear_ Hydaelyn once more, and oh, yes, she can _think_ only of how glad she is to feel a little less empty. Opening her eyes, she turns back to Atara, to Midgardsormr, and smiles tremulously. ~Thou hast broken down the wall I built around thee, and partaken of thy mistress's blessing once more. ~ Of course he noticed. After all, he… she doesn't find an easy answer in words, so she simply nods to the dragon. ~Strong art thou, mortal─stronger than any other of thy kind. Having looked upon thy deeds, I am convinced. Thou art worthy to bear Her Light. The covenant bound me to thee, but 'twould seem our fates were mingled from the first. Though I will not fight thy battles, I will yet lend thee my wings. ~

Blinking, Kohanya turns to Atara, as if she'll have an answer - as if one has anything to say to a transformed _Midgardsormr_ other than doing what he wishes. The au ra nods to her, encouraging, and together, they scramble up onto the dragon's back, clutching to the saddle provided and one another. She takes in a last deep drag of the air, seeming purer here, among the trees, and braces her spine. So close, now. So close.

\-----

A flight on dragonback is… not an experience to be forgotten, although not precisely one that Kohanya thinks she's going to remember fondly. Her grip seems always precarious and she keeps remembering Ysayle, diving through the skies of Azys Lla, the comet of hope that will never reach the ground below, ice blazing to melt away into nothing. There is no repeat of that moment, and they land atop the central Flagship safely. She is quick to slide off of the dragon's back, over the massive leather-and-scaled feeling hide, feet feeling a little unsteady on the ground, her chest tight from fear and grief. Atara, on the other hand, looks almost sad to return to earth, the au ra giving the dragon's vast shoulder a quick pat of thanks. 

Kohanya settles for a brief and polite incline of her head instead, receiving a minute bob of massive skull from Midgardsormr in return. She smiles, of a sort, although she knows the expression never touches her eyes, and she and Atara go to seek the Guidance Node. Unfortunately, it will not let them have any information of use until they eliminate the closest of the contingents of Garleans near at hand.

That is a task that Atara sets to with a sort of glee that's a little frightening to watch, tearing a swathe through them with her massive sword and utterly sure that her companion will step in with healing and weakening curses as needed. Which she _does_ of course, she's not going to fail her allies and she's no fan of the Garleans herself, but the level of joy Atara takes in tearing them apart is enough that she swears she can _feel_ a smug familiarity radiating from the Eye in her bag, which is not at all quelled by her instinctive attempts to soothe it by stroking a hand over the outside of the pack like she was smoothing a chocobo's flank. She knows it's a foolish, pointless action, but she does it all the same. 

Maybe it's just her excessive sentimentality or lingering memories, but when the damned guidance node approves, opens the research facility, and then turns itself off, she finds herself crying softly. Feeling all the more like a fool, the miqo'te scrubs at her eyes briefly with gloved fingers, pushing the tears away. Atara gives her a gentle pat on the back, teasing, "You didn't even like the nodes, I thought?"

"I don't, just… it wanted to _help_. And it wanted me to say goodbye to Wedge!" She just barely suppresses the urge for a brief spurt of further moroseness by reminding herself how lucky she is that the other Scion isn't one to repeat tales and who she has enough dirt on. Alphinaud would have taken this as a sign she really _did_ care about ancient Allagan machines after all… and Estinien would probably just tease her over it for the next epoch or so. Biting down on her lower lip for a moment, she takes a deep breath, then looks to her companion. "Let's find out what's waiting inside."

\-----

What's waiting inside turns out to be a vast variety of Allagan machinima, much to her discomfort; Kohanya is certain she's going to hear the tinkly metallic skittering of the spider-like multi-legged ones in some future nightmare. It's not that they're so terrible to fight; Atara wields her massive greatsword like some sort of possessed dervish and machinery is no more immune to most of her magics than is anything else. So long as she keeps them shielded, they make good progress.

The first roadblock is the discovery that Regula has somehow gotten inside as well, ahead of them, no less. She catches sight of Atara rolling her shoulders like a fighter warming up before a gladiatorial arena bout as they are challenged and sighs, hand briefly stroking over her bag again soothingly as she catches a stray tendril of reactive aether to her companion's dark thoughts of vengeance and anger. She can't say she doesn't have her own, they just remain… focused. There are those ahead she wishes to end far more than another Garlean soldier, in the end, so she lets Atara have her fun. In the man's defense, his reputation is earned; it is not at all the quickest or easiest fight and she spends more time than she cares to admit picking off magitek drones he assists to help him, but two Warriors of Light is a mix that she expects to be up to a great deal more challenge than a mere man. When Regula falls, she's already in motion, robe fluttering around her, so much so that Atara has to sprint a moment to catch up, startled.

She more feels than sees the other woman's glance as they head deeper into the Research facility and manages a wan sort of smile. "If he was there, the Garleans didn't get to whatever Thordan and the rest are seeking. No point in wasting time." The sooner this is done, the sooner she's _away_ from all this Allagan creepiness, the sooner she can return to Ishgard and not have anger simmering quietly at the back of her thoughts, the sooner she can shed the uneasiness of carrying the Eye while she carries her own desire for pain returned on those who cast it.

Atara makes a soft sound of acknowledgement, although she seems somewhat uncomfortable as well. The facility is not quite a maze, but it's dauntingly vast and alien to any structure she's spent significant time in. Even the Crystal Tower looked nothing like this. When she mentions as much to Atara, the woman answers her with a gruff, "I've seen a place designed a lot like this. It's better if we don't talk about it right now." Something, or somewhere, the woman went before they came to Ishgard, she supposes -- Perhaps the Coils she spoke of with Tiamat and Midgardsormr. Part of her hungers to know, but it's a matter for another time.

At the end, they find the Ascians.

Kohanya knows she shouldn't be surprised to see them again; they had to have been behind Thordan's initial idea and she certainly saw them with him after fighting the Vanu's primal. Still, she'd half-expected them to retreat to safer ground, not lie in wait to try and stop them before they even got to Thordan. Fighting them…

Fighting them is a lot scarier, if she's honest, no matter how much she hates them and wants them _ended_. There is fire and ice, and two on two is chaos enough, having to judge every second where to dodge and where to follow, avoiding swirls of black robes and tracking the blur of red, praying she's seeing Atara's armor and not the edge of one of their concealing, dehumanizing masks. Trails of flame lick her legs and arms, more than once, bruises bloom in the wake of rapid movements or rolls, hard metal opening nicks and cuts on skin, the battle allowing no opportunity to catch a breath as they clash, switch places, clash, blade and curse, icicle and fireball. 

The pair falls back; what she sees next seems impossible. The first, perhaps, of many impossible things. The two Ascians merge together into a singular vast one, towering far over the heads of her and the dark knight. Which is, arguably, not all that difficult of a task, but the scale of the thing is imposing. Swallowing hard, she shares a wide-eyed glance with her comrade in arms and they charge to the fray once more. The miqo'te finds herself running, darting, weaving shield and spell with dancing fingers, turning aside dark magics and spiriting away wounds when they break through, sweat starting to bead on her brow from the vast orbs of fire it summons. Still. In the end?

In the end, they are Hydaelyn's, and she has white auracite tucked away in her bag, and the Eye of Nidhogg, and perhaps that knowledge gives them the edge they need. The creature falters at a final overhanded blow of the vast blade Atara bears, then collapses into two once more. One of them speaks and Kohanya tunes it out, tossing the auracite to Atara, who has a much better arm, and reaching for the Eye that Estinien gave her.

The dark knight's aim is good and as she all but knew it would, the Eye roars into life in her hand, waves of aether like blood and ashes on the back of her tongue, a song like a siren's that pulls at the old anger at these enemies, that she can feel trying to snag and pull at her like thorns in a loose weave, flickers of thought that surface to her consciousness like a hunting pack of wolves around an injured deer. _The moment one of those masks was lifted and they found Thancred beneath it. Running, in Ul'dah, from men in the city's colors, in what was supposed to be their own colors. Minfilia chasing her off, staying to stand alone. A bolt of white light, as beautiful as it is horrible, piercing a shield, piercing through one of her truest friends. The feeling of being soul-worn and half-defeated and the protective rage that welled when she saw Aymeric's wounds, saw someone else suffer at the hands of what should have been their family._ She has to bite down, hard, on the inside of her cheek to keep her focus, feeling a brief spurt of copper tang that draws her attention back to concentration, shoving the memories down, shoving away the feelings not her own, shoving away those that are her own but she has no time or ability to deal with now, pulling all that power together and turning it towards the auracite.

Even Nidhogg's Eye burns bright white when you use enough power, it seems.

The other still kneels, watching her, but Kohanya can feel the eye grow quiescent in her hand, the power within muted and lurking, rather than a snarling dog barely kept on a chain. There is the ring of a great many footsteps on ancient metal and she _knows_ before she even turns, before that voice, not quite so resonant and rich as the one it spawned, but threaded with power just the same, muses, "So, not even the vaunted Warrior of Light can unmake an Ascian without relying on mortal contrivances."

A (very small) part of her wants to argue with the idea of the Eye being a _mortal contrivance_ , especially after actively wielding it, but too much of her mind is focused on a far simpler fact. Thordan is _here_ , he is within her reach, as is the damned contingent of knights. She feels herself tensing, still clutching the Eye in one hand, her book in the other, anger dawning hot as sunrise, as she turns to them. Perhaps it's the sight of the massive coffin the Ward bears that stays her from moving immediately. Perhaps it's a slight restraint given by Atara's hand on her arm, a reminder that she's supposed to not be the one who charges in first.

She can wait. She can listen. She can… she can try. Resentment is curdling in her belly as Thordan muses, proclaims, marks his own cleverness. Regretfully, he was actually clever, at that. Something goes cold in her bones when he refers to the Eye she bears as the _left_ one. How would he know that detail, unless--

The echo rings through the chamber when the knights set down the vast coffin and Kohanya spies the lance blades worked into the lid. Something within her goes frozen and still with dread, tendrils of frost racing up her spine as it opens and within… within is the poor, pitiful form of Haldrath. She is no Ishgardian, to be so attached and knowing overmuch of his tales, but it takes no effort at all to look at the form of that ancient armor, a twin in all but color to that she has watched with intensity and fondness. Except here, it is marred even more than the aether and blood that drenched and discolored the Azure Dragoon she knows so well; embedded as if it had _grown_ into the chest of Haldrath is Nidhogg's other eye, amidst spreading tendrils of dark corruption.

Nidhogg's Right Eye. Unused, untouched, not held and called upon by endless generations of Azure Dragoons, used in protection and revenge, taken out into the world, not used to end an Asican and quelled to quiescence. No, this Eye is still alive and filled with a millennium of accumulated power _and it is in Thordan's hands_. When he transforms, calling unto himself fully as a Primal, calling first a blade all too like Atara's, the Eye set into the hilt, she can only be thankful that his first order of business is the removal of the Ascian, not her.

Maybe thankful is the wrong word for it. No being, not mortal, not primal, not the God he claims he is, she thought able to unmake an Ascian like that. For too many breaths, she stares at where the robed figure had been just seconds before, and the icy fingers of terror spread further, as if the Coerthan winter now lives in her veins. How can he be… 

The challenge is issued before he and the Ward disappear; to accept his claims and allow him reign or he will end her. It makes no difference. When she turns to Atara, she can see the worry in the woman's face, even with the slight masking of her goggles, and she feels her own jaw tightens. "He's a primal. He ordered…" Her voice grows thick and heavy in her throat and she can't finish the rest. It doesn't matter. Atara will fill in at least part in her own mind, for Haurchefant was her friend too.

The dark knight claps a hand against her back, her voice surprisingly steady. "Put away that thing and let's go end this." Blinking, Kohanya recognizes she's still holding the drained Eye and she carefully tucks it away again before they turn to hunt Thordan. To the ends of the world indeed.

\-----

They find him, vast and armored, as cold and indifferent to their gaze now as he ever had been in truth. Once more, she feels that siren-song sea of deep seated bitterness, of seething hate at what he's done to those she loves, of his betrayal of Aymeric, of the casual way he tried to have her killed and his lack of concern when Haurchefant fell in her place. Oh, yes. This time? Ending a primal will be _exceptionally_ satisfying. 

As best they can, Atara holds and meets him, blade to blade, the ring of metal on metal, the resonant echo of his voices, the soft whispers of aether spun into shields and spells. Like mice battling a cat, she and the dark knight circle and press attacks to the vast "God-King" looming overhead, neither tall enough to pass his knees and neither willing to give an inch other than to avoid the swing of a sword or the vast waves of tempering power. Not that either of them _could_ be tempered.

It is hard and grueling, exhausting as one Knight or another appears, singularly or in pairs, but when Thordan retreats enough to let them face the Ward directly, sure they will be ended, her heart sings in glee because she is sure it's a sign of weakness. 

After all, she and Atara slay Primals, and that is all the Ward is now. Fire and ice, the great blade, the dragoon's lance, brother knights in arms, axe and cane, it matters not. Again and again, the attack is pressed. Again and again, she and the dark knight move in familiar practice, perhaps less experienced fighting as a unit as the Ward, but far more so in fighting _as they are now_. Her magic flows through her as if she were spinning the finest thread, falling as she calls, shrouding them away from danger, veiling the face of an attacker in blood with the lick of a curse. Atara is brutal and determined, the image of the scorned dark knights, all power and focus, and those that let the heavy weight of her blade catch them rarely are able to rise for more. 

When Thordan returns, she can hear the edge of exasperation, perhaps even desperation in his voice, and the power of the primal washes outward, calling to his Knights. She feels them come to his bidding, and Kohanya pulls Atara to her and spreads her hands wide, drawing down power in a vast dome, bracing them against the attack to come. Diffused through her own magic, when the vast blow falls, they are both staggered and bleeding, but whole. Much to Thordan's annoyance. Part of her swears she can _sense_ his weakness, like a hunting cat, and she doesn't even bother closing her own wounds, focusing on Atara and on drawing forth as much of her own powers as she can, a relentless assault of magical blows even as her curses drain him away. When he finally falls, staggers, for a moment, she can not believe it's true.

But oh, _it is_ , and for a moment, she thinks she hears a distant roar and wingbeats. Hastily, she pulls her hand away from her knapsack, grips her tome more tightly. The archbishop's disbelieving words wash over her, barely acknowledged, and as he and the rest flicker away into light and aether, slowly, very slowly, she begins to feel a sense of relief trickling into her. There's a sudden hard impact, a familiar sound of boots ringing on metal as if someone landed from a great height.

Kohanya turns, unsurprised to see Estinien's familiar form. As much as he might be sensible enough to know the risk of being here for this, he may be the one person who wanted Thordan ended even more than she did. She can't quite smile, but her expression softens, watching him approach as she retrieves the Eye once more. At least _he_ knows how to keep it under control, something she wants to be charged with even less after a mere handful of hours wielding it.

A hand gauntleted in cold metal touches her own before it reaches for the Eye, scraping away a line of dried blood to show the still unhealed cut beneath it through a tear in her glove. Tilting her head up, she catches the edges of a disapproving glare beneath the rim of the dragoon's visor and the scholar tries not to look guilty in response, muttering softly, "I'll get to it in a moment." He'll remind her if she doesn't, in any case.

It seems, from Estinien's assessment as he studies the familiar orb, that he agrees with her and the Ascians about how little is left of its power compared to normal. It's a small detail, but one that soothes, in a way. That thing is… not meant for the hands of men. 

Perhaps she should worry when he turns, spotting the sword and the second Eye, and immediately moves for it. Much to her later shame, though, in the moment, all she has is the thought that if anyone knows how to safely retrieve and maintain control of one of the draconic relics, it is her lover. So when he kneels to pry the second orb free and rises, holding both, she is no more than mildly concerned. Perhaps, even a bit happy, for when he speaks, she can hear the longing in Estinien's voice at the idea of being able to finally dispose of the relics, to abandon this dark piece of Ishgard's history far from where it can continue to haunt and corrupt. 

She feels it before she sees the signs. It is not like when she wielded an Eye so recently, exactly, but it is close enough; a sudden suffocating pressure in the air presses down on her chest, steals her breath away in a waft of blood and ash, crimson and obsidian filling shading everything, the world tilting vertiginously. She half-stumbles, then catches sight of Estinien, shaking, pained, and takes a step forward.

No more than that.

It's so fast.

She must have blinked, because her air is still gone from her lungs, the dragoon's gaze is aglow like blood spilling under the sun, and unfurling from what had been a tall man holding two draconic eyes is a vast shape, ebony scales and sanguine eyes, wings spreading to cloak the sky, as dark and endless as the final fall. For a heartbeat, it seems unreal.

A delusion.

Nidhogg huffs out a breath, and some unspeakable knowledge or sense careens along her nerves, and the certainty crashes down on her and tears her apart.

Everything is onyx and ruby, everything is the distant roaring in her ears, and everything is an endless, vast sea of the feeling of trying to scream and being unable to even open her mouth, the racing beat of her pulse trying to hammer out the name she can't make herself form. Her tome drops to the floor as wings spread and beat, the wind chasing her to collapse to her knees in their wake as Nidhogg rises like an insect from its shell, vast and chitinous and a _thief of her heart_.

She's distantly aware of hands on her arms and thinks someone is moving her. Who else was there? Dragged up onto a dragon back, Kohanya becomes aware of a scarred hand pressed to her arm, and recalls after a long moment, _Atara_. That's fine then. The other Scion will… will…

Will keep her from having to think or move or do anything but try and stay locked in the amber of that moment, delay having to fully admit to what she just experienced. She will shatter, she knows.

She can't yet. So instead, she is still and vacant, an empty vessel waiting for the water to return. 

\-----

They meet the airship. Midgardsormr flies on to Ishgard. She says nothing. She does nothing. What is there? 

Sometimes, the scholar thinks, the dark knight tries to talk to her, or move her, but she dismisses it as all irrelevant until they descend to the stones of the city. 

To her own surprise, she retains enough control over her body to slide from Midgardsormr's back. Perhaps because here, there is something to draw her. Kohanya can't bear the idea of moving closer, of _speaking_ , of even worse, of stepping to Aymeric's side and _admitting_ _her failure_. It does nothing to still the longing to be closer, to seek comfort, the first thing that truly stirs her wrappings of numbness. So instead, she holds, still and silent as if she were carved from stone like the Saints, gaze locked onto his face beneath the shield of her hat's brim.

Kohanya feels when Aymeric's gaze rests on her as he scans the group, knowing what he's seeking, and it starts to overwhelm her once more, breath growing shallow and unsteady. But he does not ask and then… Midgardsormr breaks the news for her. Hearing that ancient, implacable voice ringing her mind, that she can not simply tune out, she tenses every muscle so as not to stagger, merely trembling as if she was caught in a blizzard, the sensation seeming unending. 

That Aymeric holds himself together through the announcement is a testament to how much better with diplomatic matters he actually is than she. It's clear he's shocked and concerned, but he does not collapse, does not let himself be distracted from his duty to make peace with this dragon at his door. Tears prick at the corner of her eyes like needles, strangely proud and aching all at once, and she swallows down hard to contain them. 

Midgardsormr leaves and the organization of the group dissolves. Y'shtola and Alphinaud press to her side, questions on their lips, Atara grabbing her arm to try and get her attention, knights and family pressing in close. Gulping for air, she pushes against the nearest body lightly, finding her voice, reedy and choked. "I have to… to tell Aymeric first. What happened." She clings to that thought, feels a heavy hand fall on her shoulder. He's still gentle when he touches her. Why?

"She's in shock. Not the first soldier I've seen come back this way." Oh. Is that why everything is so distant? Aymeric is so _rational_ about it, calm and compassionate, soothing down ruffled feathers, Fortemps and Scion alike. "Please. I've dealt with this before and if she wishes to unburden her mind to me, it is better to let her do so. I will bring her to you for questions when she is ready, I swear." 

She can't believe it, but they listen, all of them. Some with a few more words added quietly, and when Count Edmont clasps her hand before he leaves, squeezing it and murmuring, "No matter what happened, we are so glad to have you home safe, my dear. Return to the Manor whenever you're ready," she can no longer fully stop the tears, silent tracks that slowly mar her cheeks. Atara is the last to go, with an urgently whispered argument she almost wishes she could follow, but it's easy to let go of that thought too, let herself slip away into the ghost memory of ruby and onyx, until Aymeric's glove covered hand takes her arm and starts to lead her, gently, through the street toward his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still hurting.


	19. Thine Own Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfort after loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW chapter because... I am predictable that way. SMUT IS COMFORTING, OKAY. Someone out there has to agree with me. XD

In more than a few ways, Aymeric is astounded to find that even after all the impossible news this day has brought, he was persuasive enough to peel Kohanya away from her compatriots to tend to her himself. The only one who'd even argued with any real vociferation was the other Warrior and while it may have been one of the more unkind things he's said in recent memory, she was swayed by his calm conviction that if she could break through the shell of regret, she would have by the time they had reached Ishgard. The knight knows that saying it struck at her and he has regrets for that, but they will come later. Right now, he has lost too much, and if he is clutching greedily at what he has left, it is only because he truly hopes he can help her.

Once they reach his manor and she's still not spoken, he is all the more sure of his initial assessment that the emotional trauma and shock of the most events, at the end of everything else, was more than she could process immediately. At least some of the gossip has filtered this far already -- someone flying into the city on dragonback, and a dragon parlaying with the Lord Commander will do that, he supposes -- as Isidore, his steward, meets him at the door and it's one of the few times he's seen the man look genuinely startled. Then the aged elezen's eyes drop to take in his companion and even before he can ask, the steward's face softens in recognition. Before a bad shoulder wound took away his ability to swing a sword, he’d spent time as a soldier in his youth, so the recognition of someone pushed too far in battle is unsurprising. "The poor young lady. I'll bring you tea and food for her. Your study, perhaps?"

"If you can find such a thing, a change of clothes too, perhaps? Ah. Or at least a dressing robe. This is her armor, after all." Even if she still seems less than fully aware, Aymeric runs his fingers over Kohanya's arm where he's holding it, trying to soothe her, and he feels a little better when the gesture makes her sway nearer to his side and take in a shallow breath.

"I shall see what we can find, sir."

"Thank you." With things properly arranged, or at least beginning to be, he guides the small woman through the halls to his office, trying not to let his mind linger on the fact that last time they were here, Estinien was with them. As she drifts down to settle on the couch, he sinks to crouch at her feet on the floor, reaching for one of the invariably present blankets and wrapping it around her shoulders. The miqo'te scholar blinks at him, slowly, but her eyes have focus to them once more, so despite the recent news, Aymeric gives her a small smile. "There you are dear heart. Full glad am I that at least one of you made it back to me safely."

"Not the right one." Kohanya's voice is dusty and crackles like hardened snow underfoot. 

"That is not the way this works." Aymeric is all too aware that the slightest traceries of anger crackle deep within his voice on riposte, too sure she is as well by the slight widening of her eyes. Drawing in a slightly too long breath for a normal pause, he pushes on, "There is never a 'right person' to bring back. Please. Tell me…" For a moment, the sheer uncertainty of where to even begin assails him, dizzying. _What had happened with his father? How was Nidhogg able to claim Estinien? How did you end up arriving in Ishgard flying with the father of all dragons?_

The unsteady mental clatter is interrupted when the door opens, a maid bringing in a tray with tea and a covered dish. A second one follows a moment later, dropping some form of folded pale clothing onto his desk. Distracted from the pursuit of questions for a moment by the brief bustle, he is relieved when the staff retreats once more, and he can return his gaze to Kohanya. She shifts, uncertain, then swallows, seeming to be finding her voice once more with the more mundane activity. "Pour some tea, and I'll tell you of what we did today, best I can manage it. I want you… to know. About the parts you expected and the ones you didn't."

Pleased that she's coherent and talking, Aymeric fills two cups and sweetens both -- alright, he might sweeten his own _more_ \-- and returns to the sofa, pressing the less syrupy cup into the miqo'te's hands gently. He then settles in to sit beside her, angled so he can watch her features as she speaks. "I am here and listening."

Kohanya takes a few sips of her tea, seeming to be organizing her thoughts, then she turns her gaze back to him. There's still a distance and dullness there, and she worries briefly at her lower lip before speaking. "I'm trying to… be as much to the point as I can. Forgive me if it doesn't all make sense. Ah. We found Garleans in Azys Lla. I think they're gone now… Atara and I ended up killing their Legatus. And… Ascians, at the heart. Two of them. With the auracite and with me wielding the Eye, we dealt with one of them before…" For a moment, her voice falters, crease growing between her brows as she picks and chooses her words like she is stepping amidst fallen bodies on the battlefield. "Thordan and the Ward arrived with what ended up being the other Eye. He transformed into a primal and killed the other Ascian. Atara and I followed him and…" Somehow, she still seems _apologetic_ when she meets his gaze, as if he had not himself told her more than once that the man would have to die. Very gently, he lays a hand on her knee, waiting for her to continue. "Well. He and the Ward are dealt with. But he left behind his sword when he melted into the aether, which… had the other Eye in it."

A suspicion starts to form at that and Aymeric watches as she scrubs at her face, wearily, then leans into him for support, pushing through the words. "I returned the Eye I had wielded to Estinien. It's aether reserves were all but gone. I thought so, Thordan thought so, _Estinien_ thought so when I handed it to him. But I guess… maybe Thordan had not used as much killing the Ascian and trying to kill us as we thought. Or maybe no one mortal should ever have tried to hold both Eyes at once. I don't know. But he-- he--" Kohanya cuts off in a choking sob, and with quick motions, Aymeric sets aside the cups so he can pull her to him, cradling the scholar tenderly. Holding her close is awkward in armor, but he's more than willing to endure that as he makes quiet soothing sounds and rubs his hands on her back in slow circles.

Willing to wait til she catches her breath again naturally, as the sobs die back, Aymeric presses lips to his Warrior's forehead. She shivers against him, voice grown rough from her crying, "Even now, you're just so… _kind_. How can you be real, Aymeric?" Confused as to her meaning, he blinks in response, startling a harsh-edged laugh from the woman. One of her gloved hands stretches up, patting his cheek gently, and he frowns when he notices a large tear in the back of the fabric and the cut beneath. Capturing the hand in his, he starts to carefully peel her gloves off, his gestures deft and gentle.

"I assure you, I have a more than adequate personal share of flaws and failures, but being cruel to those I love because they share the same sorrow and pain I do is _not_ one of them, nor do I want it to be." As he speaks, he examines her bared hands - blood smeared and battered, but nothing of real concern. "The servants brought a change of clothes, if you wish. I found that, at least for me, remaining in armor after battle makes it feel like it hasn't ended yet."

Kohanya looks down at herself, still clad in her battle-worn healer's coat and robes and makes a quiet sound. "In a moment. I should…" She drags in a ragged breath, fingers trembling in his. "He -- Estinien -- pried the second eye loose. For a brief while, it seemed like everything was fine. And then… Nidhogg's presence filled everything and he… It was him, Aymeric, and then it was the Wyrm. So quickly. It was so… He was just… there and then gone." Once again, she seems on the edge of tears, and he clasps her hands tighter in his as she holds onto him like he is her only shelter in a deadly storm, taking long, harsh-edged breaths as the salt water breaks forth, sliding down in her face in branching eddies.

It's not all he wants to know, but it's enough. For Halone's mercy, he thinks he's glad there's not more details. His dreams are bad enough and details on the death of his father or of Estinien being transformed and likely lost are… For a second, he falters as well, then he swallows hard, focusing on staying strong for everyone else, for the woman next to him. That has ever been one of the hardest parts of command; his breaking down must needs wait til after everyone else is done, because they rely on him and he cares too much to break that trust.

In the end, Kohanya cries herself into near exhaustion. When the tears abate again and he gently dries her face, Aymeric helps the scholar change into what appears to be a shorter, summer length chemise, probably retrieved from the back dregs of some closet where it was stashed after the Calamity. No matter the origin, at least it's short enough to only hit the top of the scholar's feet. Settling her with the plate and a fresh cup of tea, Aymeric coaxes forth a promise to stay and eat until he returns, then takes the opportunity to bring her garb to the maids to have it cleaned, as well as to change out of his own armor. 

When he returns, the food is gone, and Kohanya curled up on the couch, legs pulled up to tuck inside the nightgown, the blanket draped over her shoulders once more. When he reclaims a spot sitting by her, she attempts a hesitant, faltering smile and lifts one hand to indicate the old quilt caping her form. "It smells like you, you know… how often do you sleep here?"

"Rather more than I should, if I was pressed. How are you doing?"

Instead of an immediate answer, Kohanya slides over to basically climb into his lap, nudging and shifting until he finds himself nearly lying on the sofa, with her tucked in against him, nose buried in the crook of his neck and breathing deeply as she admits, in a quiet voice, "I'm exhausted. And in control, for now. I can't promise it'll last. I can stay here with you, just… a little longer, right?"

Dragging one hand through her hair until he can find the base of an ear and rubbing at it in slow, calming circles, Aymeric rumbles in response, utter certainty in his words, "Stay as long as you want, dear heart. Let us be alone together for now." There's a quiet sound of acceptance and she nestles nearer as he continues to rub, waiting for the touch to lure her off into sleep. His heart aches right now, and it's a little easier, as she rests against him, small and warm and meaning he's not actually alone with his pain.

\-----

In the end, Aymeric drifts into a doze as well, emotionally exhausted and drinking in the slight comfort of company in his sorrow. It's not a deep sleep, though, and when Kohanya stirs, he does as well, slowly untangling fingers from her hair as he blinks at her sleepily. Judging by the state of the fire, which is down to nearly spent logs and embers, it's been a few hours and the servants have mercifully chosen not to interrupt. That, or he's inadvertently trained them after years of mostly only entertaining Estinien to never walk in when there's a houseguest. 

His voice is little more than a whisper, the mood and the late hour seeming to demand quiet, if for no particular reason of clear rationality. "How are you doing?" The question is, perhaps, inane; he knows the answer isn't going to be anything good, but he wants to keep her focused, intent on being here and now, with him, not getting lost in memory or fears.

Kohanya simply stretches up to kiss him, her lips as hot as fever, burning with the need for comfort and reassurance, her tongue slipping into his mouth and drawing him into the flames as well. When she finally relents, stops trying to pull the very essence of him into her through her lips, her voice is soft and husky, threaded through with the unsteadiness of pure, honest pleading. "Aymeric, please, reassure me I am not altogether lost, that I still have you, at least."

He could, he knows, so easily have been left alone, bereft of a beloved who never allowed him to claim that name, forced to a face of public calm, to seem no more troubled than any other man when a trusted companion in arms finally fell to their endless war. Instead, Estinien inadvertently left him this strange, wondrous gift; someone else who loves him, his admired Warrior, small and sweet and fierce and shockingly _open_ now that she trusts him fully, a lingering warmth to help fade the pain a little. Aymeric laces a hand into her hair, twisting strands as almost as dark as his own about broad fingers, and pulls her up to kiss again, to devour in turn, pour need and love and loneliness into the vessel that waits to receive them. "Not lost, my dear. I am still here with you." The other hand settles at her waist, pulling her closer in against his body, half-turned so the miqo'te's curves are nestled between him and the back of the couch, held in warmth and security as he presses kisses against lips until they're swollen and dark from the pressure. 

He can not say he is surprised when her intentions turn almost predatory, desperate, small fangs delicately nipping dents into his lower lip, then slipping up to do the same along the lobe and shelled edge of his ear. Her voice is still a little smoky, although the heat is waking further as she pauses to take the pointed tip in her lips, tongue flickering over it. "You are, and oh, my dear knight, I am so glad, for remembering that lets me keep hope." He groans, fingers in her hair turning to cup the back of her head, shameless in holding her near his ear as she continues to tease with teeth and tongue, a bump of her nose stirring his earring as she moves, fond whispers filling his senses. "I know you're being strong for me, because that's always been your way… Strong, kind, too self-sacrificing…" 

A fine-boned hand curls under his chin, guiding his head to turn the other way, so that his Warrior can toy with the curve of the other ear now, breath hot and humid against warm skin. "You are too good, my dear, but right now, let me see your naughtier side." As if she would have to ask, the call of forgetting through the sheer force of physicality the lure in times to stress it always is, and if the body against his is not the most familiar one for his usual comfort, it is still sweet as birch syrup as he girdles hands around her hips, rolling now to trap her beneath him, his legs bracketing hers.

The loss of lips on his ear is unfortunate, but it's worth the tradeoff to be able to lift one hand to stroke the soft skin of her cheek, tease a drag of nails under her jawline, then as he claims a kiss, mouth drinking deeply of the chalice, fingers drag along her throat with soft pressure, toying over pulse and the increasingly unsteady lift and fall of breath. With a low groan, Aymeric drags his hand down further, delicately tracing the ledge of collarbones through her thin shift, fingertips tracing the hard flatness of a sternum before he finally allows himself the indulgence of cupping over the soft fullness of one breast, letting the heavy weight fill his hand as the kiss slips from lips to chin, then down to claim her neck the same ways his fingers had, leaving a pattern of delicate nips and soft sucks, trying not to make any visible marks right now.

Which is damnably _hard_ when she whines and curls fingers into his hair, tugging at fistfuls of soft, raven-dark strands hopefully. With a low rumble of laughter, the grip of his hand tightening, kneading as his thumb slowly rolls across the slight rise of a nipple, he teases, "I think you have had enough marks, don't you?" When she keens out an incoherent protest, the knight gives in and indulges her, pushing the neckline of her garb further down her shoulder with his nose til he can cover the skin there with his mouth, drawing on it and leaving a soft, dark mark of claiming. As he does so, her nipple hardens under his lazy ministrations and he closes fingertips in a careful pinch, shuddering in a harsh breath at her eager sounds as he starts to tug and roll the stiff bud, feeling it grow taut with need before he reaches across, treating the other side the same. 

Once she's panting breathlessly, fingers pulling harder at his hair in wordless, incoherent demand, Aymeric allows himself a smile against her neck, smelling the sweat and musk of exertion on her skin. He murmurs, voice lower and resonant with desire, "What do you need of me, dear heart? What will bring you the most comfort?" 

As he peeks up through the dark shadows of his lashes at her face, her own flutter an erratic pattern against her cheeks before slitting open, a flash of eyes like wine and blood locking on his own before she insists, " _You_." If her meaning were not already clear, she presses her hips up, grinding against him in invitation. With a soft rumble of approval, Aymeric starts to bunch her chemise up in his hands, pulling it off over her head shortly afterwards. Her delicate, deft fingers are at his own clothes, plucking demandingly, unfastening, loosening, and it takes very little time for all but his smallclothes to join the discarded garments on the floor. Stealing a brief moment to look at her properly, the knight makes a quiet murmur of nonspecific sound, one hand stretching out to caress over a bruise marred across her ribs, then touching a soft scrape at her belly. 

Dark hair fluttering against her face and shoulders as she lowers her head, watching his touch, Kohanya says softly, "After. I'll heal myself then, I promise, but _please_ , Aymeric, I need to feel alive, to feel _you_ deep within me far more." It's a very difficult sort of plea to argue with, soft and indirect as the begging is, and not desiring to think beyond the moment, Ishgard's Lord Commander hooks his fingers into the waist of her smalls, dragging them down and off her hips. Once she's bared, he licks his lips, impulse drawing fingers to drag through the thatch of short, dark curls, to press between thighs to cup over the warm, damp heat of her. Heady and eager, she grinds against the flat of his hand, even with almost no real contact or pressure, and Aymeric hisses in a breath at the way her open, unguarded expression of trusting pleasure cuts at his spirit, healing and harming all at once. He scrambles to finish undressing properly as well, not missing the longing in her gaze as the aching lift of his hard prick is bared to her eyes. And oh, yes, he wants her to touch him, very much, but not as much as he wants to touch her, see her come undone and prove she still has hope and love and belongs to him.

With a shaking groan, the knight pulls the scholar in closer, then presses her back down into the sofa so he can bend over her, one knee wedged between her legs as he reclaims his access to her sex. Now, he dips the tip of a finger between warm folds, spreading the slickness within, dragging it up to let him trace circles around her clit. Head falling back and back arching, she melts for his touch, fingers clasping for whatever grasp on his body they can get, nails tracing erratic patterns and leaving tiny runes of private meaning when they drag roughly and mar his skin, crescents and lines like constellations. 

Carefully, he eases his fingertip into her, shivering at the way she clasps around him and moans eagerly, it seeming to take no time at all to plunge deeper, add a second, curl them up til he can find the place that makes her cry out in ragged, desperate pleasure. Rocking against it in a slow, steady motion, Aymeric waits til she's all but undone with tension, tight and hot and wetter than if all the snows in Coerthas had melted at once. There is an undeniable urge to push further, making her fall to pieces in his hands so he can meld her back together again, but he _is_ an honorable man and she has told him what she wants. Regretfully, he pulls back, laying a trail of kisses down her neck, sternum, belly, before he straightens enough to remove the last of his clothing as well. Equally bare now, he returns to the grip of hands on her waist, drawing her to him and canting her hips upwards. With an encouraging mewl, she wraps legs around him, heel digging into the small of his back as she draws in, pressing slick to stiff, rocking in subtle, needy movements. 

With a groan of frustration, Aymeric bites down on his lower lip, having to force himself to focus and not just press back to her, grind and soak in the pleasure. There is more, and better, to be sought with a little effort. Carefully, he looses a hand to slip between them, trying to angle himself to slot within her. It takes a moment, but he finds the right spot, having to bite down harder at the first clasp of heat and pressure. He tries to press in gradually despite her need and the demanding way she beats a rhythm with her heel against him, greedy and demanding. Only once he's settled at his own pace, deep within, does he bow down to kiss her, powerful and demanding as he slowly starts to move. "Patience, dear heart, I am here." 

Her eyes slit, looking unconvinced, and even now, in the midst of sorrow and pleasure, he cannot suppress a soft laugh. So instead, he just kisses her again, lets the press of lips and warm skin keep her as focused on him as does the fact that he shifts her hips to let his thrusts press against that same spot that his fingers were earlier, until she's half-screaming into his mouth. The sound of her so needy for him is more than enough to make him groan in return, pace growing faster and harder. They're both emotional enough that questions of being too rough or too needy have no space to press into their minds, and as they settle, she marks him with her nails more, dragged over back and side, driving him on to further heights.

It seems no time at all before he's struggling to wait for her own pleasure, and as she tenses, Aymeric pulls her lower lip between his, suckling at it softly as he darts a hand to their joining, raggedly works fingertips against the center of her need, trying to match pace to his own desperately rocking hips. The instant her whole self seems to _catch_ , tensing down around him, then crashes apart in shuddering, body wide waves, he makes a rough sound of approved assent and unleashes his own restraint, driving in hard to spend his own ecstasy, buried deep in _wet_ and _hot_ and _connection_. For a long time, they both seem to freeze at that apex, still as frozen ice carved by the winds, closed in an intimate bubble where nothing can exist in those few crystalline instants but themselves, their partners, the combined heat of bodies exhausted in removing the boundaries between them, the quiet sound of shallow, rasping breaths as each dreamily drifts back to full awareness.

When he thinks he can speak coherently, Aymeric reaches up, gently brushing strands of aubergine hair out of her face, where sweat has painted them to Kohanya's skin. "I think, between that and your return, I very much owe you a drawn bath, dear heart." He bends a bit more, pressing a fluttering kiss to the dark mark on her brow. "If you summon your familiar and deal with your injuries, I will go start the water running. You remember the way to my washroom?"

Blinking up at him, she manages a slight, weary smile after a moment. "Mmmmm. I do." One hand slides along his back, over his shoulders, idle and yet somehow clearly appreciative in the slow way it moves. "Thank you. Both for helping me forget for a tiny bit and for taking care of me."

"Something that, I assure you, I am more than pleased to be able to do. It helps my own mind, as well…" Aymeric carefully eases himself out of her after leaning to grab his discarded smallclothes, recognizing with a slight grimace that it's the closest option at hand to a towel. Well. There will be laundry to be done either way, and best to protect the sofa.

\-----

Within a half bell, Aymeric has the tub nearly filled and sleepwear collected in the washroom, the steam in the air redolent with the scent of lavender. Not his typical choice, but like many Ishgardian children, baths with lavender oil in the evening to prepare the mind for sleep were a staple of his youth, and when he wanted to find something that would make Kohanya feel as relaxed and comforted as possible, it seemed the obvious choice. Trailing one hand through the water, he waits with as much patience as he can muster, a subtle ripple of unkinking rippling through his muscles when the miqo'te's short body finally slips through the door. Even with the chemise covering her again, she moves a bit easier, and the more visible scratches and bruises are no longer apparent.

"Did she scold you terribly?" The lord can not keep a trace of soft humor out of his voice, since he's seen already how prone the glowing creature is to berating the scholar when she fails to take care of herself first.

"Mmmhmm. Less than I expected, though… She recognizes that I'm… stressed?" Kohanya glances up at him with a slight, wry smile, then steps in closer. "It smells good in here." She reaches up, starting to untwine the braid partially confining her dark strands, before Aymeric gives in to temptation and pulls her to him, taking over the task of carefully unwinding and smoothing everything back down.

"I rarely get to spoil those dear to me, so if you will allow it…" Aymeric is not surprised at her slightly wary look, but she nods agreement to the request. Stepping into the tub, he guides her after him, settling them both down so he can start to gently wash away the blood, sweat, and dirt of her time in Azys Lla. Ilm by ilm, her skin emerges cleansed and perfumed, until the knight guides her to lean back, ducking her head to wet her hair so he can wash that as well, taking his time at massaging in the cleanser until she's relaxed and lax against him. Once rinsed and clear, Aymeric draws the healer in to rest against him, savoring the opportunity to be warm and close, to feel someone he loves safely _with_ him, to be able to take care of them and be trusted. 

When the water starts to cool, Kohanya stirs, tilting her head back to look up, and the elezen feels compelled to lean down and kiss her forehead. "Aye. Time for some proper sleep, and I'll bring you back to Fortemps in the morning. Hopefully, I will be forgiven for monopolizing you so after…" His voice falters, catching before he presses on. "After everything that has occured in the past day. But I am greedy, and tonight at least, let me sleep with you there, so my bed and heart feel a little less abandoned." Guilt and sympathy first trickle, then flood into her gaze, one damp hand reaching up to caress over his cheek, soft and intimate. 

Uncaring of the water the action will slop onto the floor, Aymeric smiles and gently picks up his scholar, stepping out of the tub and setting her down carefully on the bathmat before grabbing towels to dry both of them off. Sensing the continuation of his earlier mood, she is patient and trusting, letting him pat away the water and even comb through her hair, twisting the damp strands back into a french braid. "Dare I ask how you learned to-- Oh." Her voice falls soft and silent, and he leans to kiss the top of her head, making a quiet sound of assent before pressing a well-worn old sleep shirt into her hands. As she pulls it on, she pauses, her expression flickering through complicated patterns as she fingers the cuff, lifting the fabric briefly to her nose. After that, she simply lifts onto her toes and pulls him down, lips seeking his to press in a soft, lingering glide, full of quiet understanding and adoration, all trust and gentle motion. 

When they retire to bed, it is perhaps with a ghostly memory beside them, but at least it is not alone.


	20. Unfinished Business

Without Thordan hanging over their heads, and the depth to which Nidhogg is currently a threat an open question, the mood in Ishgard is all about waiting, despite a certain political tension. Waiting, Aymeric is discovering, is not necessarily a skill that Kohanya has in vast stores, probably even when she's not still dealing with a great deal of emotional processing. In theory, she's still supposed to be staying with the Fortemps. In reality, almost every night since they returned to Ishgard, even if she begins the evening there, sometime in the late hours, she finds her way to his door, shivering in the nighttime chill and looking lost. After the fifth time, he gives in and spends an obscene amount of gil on getting a personal aetheryte imported and installed in the back garden, both so she'll spend less time outside underdressed and to lower the amount of people who see her wandering the streets or lingering on the doorstep. 

In all honesty, he is often grateful for her neediness in this; it means he needs make no excuses for feeling like his bed is empty because it is not, and it means that he can rest secure in the certainty that she, at least, is safely here in Ishgard and with him. Tenuous threads to hang one's ability to appear calm and steady on, perhaps, but she spins them for him well enough. The daylight hours worry Aymeric more, especially as his time becomes increasingly consumed by negotiations and meetings and tea and dinners with other Eorzean leaders as the shape of Ishgard's re-entry into the Alliance is hammered out. On the good days, she takes up work with other adventurers and returns, wearied and perhaps slightly battered, but distracted and productive. On better days, Artoirel or Emmanelain has coaxed her into granting them her assistance, and she seems cheered by the presence of her adopted family. On the bad days… he hears reports of her being seen wandering alone in all parts of the city, including those closed off and condemned, as well as in the wilds beyond. Time for introspection seems to leave her melancholy and wearied; these nights are the ones where her nightmares are more likely to wake them than his, and often because she begins to scream or weep in her sleep.

Unsure of a better solution, he tries to talk to Master Leveilleur to see if he has any hope of being able to keep track of her during the day; apparently, her level of ease and comfort with the aetherytes is beyond even his expertise to follow. The other warrior, Mistress Mos, says more or less the exact same thing. So it becomes a routine, if not the most enjoyable one; he works all day to try and improve Ishgard, to not let his mind linger on loss and fears and concerns more than he has to, and frets over whether she'll be there and in what sort of shape she'll be in when he gets home.

\-----

When he stops inside the entryway to shake off snow and shed his boots before he heads deeper into the house to change, Aymeric is interrupted by Isidore. "Your young lady let herself in again. I believe she's in the study."

With a grateful smile -- and the largely formulaic apology for their having to "entertain" her, when he knows the servants have largely turned to treating her as a family member, much as they once had Estinien, Aymeric quickens his pace to his room to trade armor for tunic and trousers and slippers, then returns to the first floor to seek out his guest. Sure enough, the study door is partially open. When he slips within, the Lord Speaker has no trouble locating his "young lady," given that she's curled on her side asleep on the rug in front of the fire, pillow stolen off of the couch clutched tightly in her arms for comfort. Equally comfortable looking atop the dark haloed spread of her hair is Snowflake, the old grey and white tom industriously taking advantage of this rare attempt to groom someone who won't howl a protest as he purrs loudly and orders the fur on the miqo'te's ears. 

Rather than wearing her familiar healer's garb or a gown, she has on the tunic and trousers she wears when practicing the new "red magic" she's been working on more lately. A glance cast around the room turns up her rapier and focus, abandoned on his desk, as well as a lightweight pack that suggests she'd gone out to do some sort of adventuring work. With a smile, Aymeric pads over and crouches down, reaching out to stroke his hand along the tom cat's back. He's not overly worried about waking his visitor, given both that she's stayed asleep through the rather loud and ragged purring and his own experience with how deeply she tends to go under when she rests. "Taking advantage of any opportunity to get her attention, I see, you treacherous beast." Snowflake shamelessly leans into the petting, a cat to the core, and abandons his attempts to groom Kohanya's ears for trying to scour the skin off of his hand. When Aymeric tries to pull it away, the cat wraps his two forepaws around his wrist, attempting to pin him, and he gives a long-suffering sigh and settles down to sit and tolerate it for at least a few moments. 

Soon enough, however, the desire to not be licked raw must win out, and he gently pulls his hand loose to a grumbly meow from the cat, who finally stretches and stands, stalking out of the room with an utterly feline look of disdain at his poor taste. Shifting his attention to the felinoid woman instead, Aymeric finds her blinking at him slowly, apparently awake after all. Lightly running a fingertip over the furred edge of an ear, he murmurs quietly, "Good evening, my dear heart. Did you exhaust yourself saving the world today?"

She presses her head into his hand, eyes lidding halfway as she curls in a bit closer. "Not quite that exciting… I don't know that helping Goblins retrieve items they need for rebuilding is that much saving the world, but it kept me busy enough to not be thinking." There's a wan smile at that, and she rolls onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, tail trailing off to one side. "What about you? Get anyone to actually agree to anything?"

"I think the date is now tentatively set for Ishgard's formal admission in approximately three weeks, assuming the astrologians can come into agreement about the weather on the possible day. So, while exhausting, I can at least state that I believe some definitive progress has been made." As he speaks, Aymeric continues to idly run fingertips over her ears, then down to light caress over the edges of Kohanya's face, simply letting himself soak in her presence. "For the present, though, allow me the rare indulgence of leaving my work at work. Since I have returned to the Manor at a not completely unreasonable hour, I believe the kitchens will have something ready for supper, if my dear lady would choose to join me for a meal?" He leans his head over to watch her reaction, lips curled into the soft, slightly lopsided and goofy smile that Aymeric seems to only wear when with those closest to him.

"Mmm… I suppose, were it to please the shield of my heart, I could be convinced to indulge in such a thing." Kohanya rolls gracefully to her feet, turning to offer him a hand up, which he takes without ever really trying to have her hold any of his weight. Once standing, he gallantly offers the miqo' woman his arm, which she takes with a soft smile. "Let's see what the kitchen has worked up for us."

\-----

The meal turns out to have been a surprisingly rich fish pie, and Kohanya silently wonders just how many of the menus in the Manor are things designed to be able to be kept warm or reheated quickly given Aymeric's dedication to keeping terminally unwise hours. One of the maids -- Sidonie, she thinks -- had even told her that they were glad to have her staying there, privately, because the staff were grateful that it put pressure on him to keep more normal hours and actually sleep in his bedroom rather than at his desk. In some ways, that's good for her too; it encourages her not to get too lost in her own head, if she can convince herself she is in some way responsible for Aymeric taking care over himself. No matter her fondness -- and she _refuses_ to think of that in any sort of past tense -- for Estinien, she can't imagine that keeping to a reliable schedule is one of his virtues as a house guest.

After tea and a few pastries are brought out, she toys with her fork, chasing down stray crumbs as she considers Aymeric across the table. "So, will you indulge me if I wish to be unforgivably nosy? It would, at least, be a conversation I can promise is not about politics of the day." Her smile is touch strained, but still full of genuine fondness.

"I can imagine nothing that I would wish to keep secret from you, nor be capable of it, if you truly needed to know." Aymeric murmurs, and she can't quite suppress a small wince at the reminder about the Echo.

"You know I… don't do that on purpose, right? I wish I _did_ , but so far, I haven't seemed to manage any idea of what makes it happen or not. I didn't mean to see something so discomforting to you as I did after…" Kohanya's gaze drops to her plate and fixates on it, trying to ignore the second-hand agony from the memory of his wince at realizing what she saw after the Vault, never mind the _actuality_ of it turning her food into cold lumps in her stomach. Aymeric extends his arm across the table, hand seeking out hers, and she makes herself look up again when he clasps their fingers together and smiles weakly.

"I am aware, and my intent was not to chastise you for being who and what you are, merely to make the notation. My apologies for it distressing you." She can feel her nose wrinkle up, but there's no question that the warmth in his eyes is still genuine as she continues to hold onto that hand. "Ask your question, dear heart."

"Ah. Yes. Still, forgive me. I'd wanted to ask about how you and Estinien…. Ended up in the situation you were in when I entered the picture, to put it delicately?" She knows her expression is guarded, cautious, but the truth of her curiosity is no doubt shining in her eyes. It may not be the most comfortable question right now, but there's a burning need to _know_ , and to find ways to keep him in her thoughts, in their lives, even in small ways, through this neverending _not knowing_. 

There's a momentary hesitation that presses a small splinter of guilt into her; she knows this is something likely never spoken of openly. Aymeric leans one elbow on the table, curling one wide hand under his chin to prop it up, watching her as he speaks. "You are aware that we were both in training then served in the Temple Knights together, I am sure." He pauses not even an entire beat as she nods, wistfulness turning the corners of his fox-eyed gaze soft as Aymeric casts his memory back. "Wherein I was aware of him far earlier than he was of me, at least until only we survived an attack by a dragon. Which he promptly stalked off to try and kill on his lonesome, because Estinien has ever been himself and fearless in the worst way. After I followed and kept it from ending his life instead, he seemed to accept my company when not otherwise busy." Even now, he doesn't seem aware of the slight, fond smile curling up his lips, subtle but unmistakable once his expressions were well known. "Even enjoy it, yes. Neither of us were terribly good at making friends, Estinien by choice, and I because of the rumors. Others were happy to fight alongside me and work with me, but when my friendship could still potentially be a social liability…" One shoulder hitches up, then drops, the gesture just a bit too abrupt and rough to portray the casual indifference it's meant to, hinting at the more honest feelings beneath.

"Suffice to say, I think it will come as little surprise to you that how something might impact him socially was not among Estinien's primary concerns, although he fretted often about how _he_ might affect _mine_ , especially as we began to move up the ranks. Perhaps…" The knight breathes out a soft breath, lips parted, and reaches for his wine. "Perhaps he realized I was looking with more than just martial admiration earlier than I ever was? It's impossible to know. He wouldn't have told me. Such things are _accepted_ among soldiers, so long as they are a matter of convenience and one still does their family duties later." Taking a long sip from the glass, Aymeric closes his eyes before continuing, expression distant now. "He used to keep his hair tied up, when it was shorter, but it was thick enough it was always breaking the cheap bits of string and leather he'd use to confine it. We'd had too much ale one night and I was fussing at him about how he ought to let me braid it for him, so it wouldn't happen so often, and he finally snapped something about how if I wanted to get my hands on him that badly, I ought to at least be offering to do something interesting."

Turning an actually rather impressive hue of red that might do her eyes proud, Aymeric half-covers his face with one hand, rubbing at his eyes. "So drunken fool that I was, I grabbed him and kissed him. I hadn't the sense at the moment to remind myself it was likely just his usual attitude but… Well. It did not go poorly and after that, we fell into the sort of comradeship that soldiers do. I had a great many very strong feelings and wanted to express them, and Estinien would remind me that I had a duty to my family and refuse." He looks tired, now, and with a twinge of regret, Kohanya leaves her chair and circles the table, the fact that the elezen stays seated meaning she can actually wrap her arms around him from behind, nuzzling her cheek gently to his as Aymeric continues to attempt his explanation.

"In many ways, that was ever the shape of it. Sometimes, we drifted apart when our respective ranks or roles made that part of our… closeness… untenable and when I had risen high enough, I began to have the pressure to court properly. So he would come back to me, I would be thrilled, and as soon as he thought he saw a chance for me to do my family right, he would disappear into his revenge again and return once I had once again failed to find any real spark or satisfaction, not like…" The very slightest of quavers in his voice. "Not like we had. A few years ago, after my mother passed, I courted a widow of another knight. We got along well enough to be intimate and I enjoyed her company, if I did not burn for her, and I thought that would be enough. She, bless her wisdom, recognized it, called me out on it, and left me. At the time, it hurt terribly, but being told she could tell my true heart wasn't in us, despite the, ah, enjoyable physicality, made me decide that perhaps I was better off leaving the matter of 'finding a wife' aside." He can't look away, with her so close, but neither does he have to look at her directly. His eyes still close, hiding his feelings, or rather, trying to. "Why bother, with my parents gone, and being sure none could stir my heart like he had? It would be unkind to them if they did not know, and being so very open here would be… A tactical error. I truly do not know if I am more startled that you acquired my genuine interest even after meeting you or that you acquired his. I had presumed he would be as he has when there were other, ah, physical demands on his time and be scarcer for such time as they demanded, then return fully to me when he grew bored. Realizing he actually had _feelings_ …"

Aymeric gives a small shake of his head, then lifts one hand to clasp over her own. "I did not foresee such a blunt solution, shall I say? Yet it is somehow terribly like him, to have cut through any attempts to discuss or dither about it and simply…" His cheeks flush, although nothing to compare to how they had earlier. "Drag us bodily into a solution, so to speak, so he can avoid the words but still have the reality." 

Unable to suppress a soft outburst of laughter, Kohanya turns her head, pressing a gentle kiss against the line of his cheekbone. "I think that would be an accurate assessment of him, yes. Stubborn, tries very hard to avoid talking too openly, cuts through the extraneous… Yet loyal and worried for people, all the same." She sighs quietly, then, shifting to lean her forehead against his, such as she can. "I know you think it probably can't be done, but I'll… I'll find some way to fix this, Aymeric, I _will_. I can't lose anyone else."

The sound he makes is soft and reassuring, although it lacks the conviction and belief she'd hoped to hear. That's alright. She can have enough faith for both of them.

\-----

As Kohanya tosses her focus into the air, where it hangs above her hand as she starts to channel aether, Aymeric reminds himself that this is still preferable to trying to spar with her when she's a healer. Trying, because while he can force himself, wielding even a practice sword against a woman who doesn't even reach his shoulders and is carrying nothing but a book _feels_ like being a bully, no matter how much Estinien had clearly enjoyed it from the way his eyes lit up when he discussed sparring with her. A rapier and magic still look like weak choices against his greatsword, but at least they do look like _weapons_. Giving a small roll of his shoulders to loosen them, Aymeric does his best to settle into a ready stance, watching his partner warily for a sign of an opening feint.

When she does move, it's with magic first, and he finds himself having to dart and weave to avoid as many thrown spells as possible; some seem to be pure magical force, but blasts of air knock him off balance several times, and the better timed blasts of levin leave him tingling and stinging. He is still able to get a few solid strikes in before she can parry, although he catches sight of a weaker form of healing magic amidst the elements, lessening her wounds. Rather unfair, if he does say so, but perhaps given everything, she's earned an unfair advantage.

When Kohanya finally does turn to using the rapier is when it gets interesting. Leaping forward, she impacts his shoulder heavily, but having her in close range makes it easier to use his greater size to his advantage, and a heavy overhand blow against the delicate blade sets her off balance. And then to the ground, when, shameless in battle as he was trained, Aymeric lashes out with a sweep of one foot to knock her feet out from under her. His deadly little warrior topples to the ground with a startled cry and he drops the blade further, holding it steady against the side of her neck. "Yield, dear heart?"

Her gaze briefly narrows, but Kohanya is quick enough to sigh and nod acknowledgement. "I yield, Ser. I shouldn't be surprised, trying out a fairly new skill against someone of your experience."

Resisting letting much -- hopefully any, but that might be too much optimism -- evidence of a smirk show on his face, Aymeric lowers his sword and offers her a hand up instead. She's panting from exertion, which is unfortunately a bit distracting in the close-cut bodice she wears right now, and he's glad when she gets to her feet and shifts to leaning against him a little. "I may not be the Azure Dragoon, but I could not have risen to where I am without _some_ skill in combat, after all."

Head tilting up to regard him, he catches a thoroughly _wicked_ gleam in the depths of her wine-hued gaze and swallows. "I have never been such a fool so as to discount you for preferring the magic of healing first and foremost… I assure you, watching you fight, even if it's against me, is enough to stir the blood as much as your more outwardly vicious counterparts." Reminding himself that this is the practice field, he presses a chaste kiss to her forehead. "I shan't even be so crass as to brag about having managed to take you in a fight, no matter the circumstances."

Amusement burbles up through her voice, coloring it with lightness. "If I dare say so, Ser, I think you by nature are not so crass as to brag about managing to take me in other ways either, despite having more opportunities." The comment draws a briefly shocked cough, then a wry laugh from him, gaze lifting towards the height of the walls as a slight flush warms his skin momentarily.

"I am, after all, raised a gentleman, no matter how I was born, my dear." Brushing a stray strand of hair away from her eyes, he asks cautiously, "Another round, or do you have a different preference?" He is not surprised when her hand comes to rest on his armor over his chest, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

"I was thinking something along the lines of a reward for the victor, although probably I should not grant such favors right here on the practice grounds…" No matter how sure he is of asking after her wants once alone, the boldness in public spaces that both she and Estinien can have never fails to draw color to his face and ears. "Ought to wash the sweat off anyway, after all. Perhaps an adjournment to the bath?" As if he were likely to refuse such an offer! A quick nod and a proffered arm; Kohanya picks up her weapons to store them and takes it and they adjourn, to matters equally physical but typically less violent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to feed your author with comments. XD


	21. Love's Feverous Citadel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To speak openly, to bare truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I got a smut problem. Sorry.

The day of Ishgard's formal rejoining dawns clear and bright, a feat of remarkably pleasant weather for Coerthas. Although Kohanya stays to help him prepare in the morning, which mostly means that she fusses over details of his armor lying just right before he leaves, he has been forewarned that she and Master Alphinaud intend to leave the city after to pay a visit and will not be back until later in the evening. Which in theory, is just as well, since there are a great many people who feel the need to talk to him afterwards, express feelings positive or negative or sometimes both at once, and by the time he reaches home well after dark, Aymeric is wearied and exhausted. 

Blessedly, it turns out he is _also_ anticipated and adored. That his staff has made sure to keep a pot of soup warming over low heat so that dinner is instantly ready is testament to their long experience and knowledge of his habits, although a filling bowl of the hearty stuff goes a long way towards lessening some of the stress of the day. A great deal more was lifted by the scholar greeting him at the door, as at home as if she properly was the lady of the manor -- a thought he dares not let his mind do more than momentarily ghost past and then forget -- as she lifts unto her toes to press a quiet kiss to his lips.

After eating, she lures him upstairs, although it turns out tonight not for any salacious purpose; instead, Aymeric is reminded again that while her healer's fingers may not be as strong as a more hardened fighter, they make up for it with precision and care when working loose the knots of tension, stress, and overwork from his shoulders. Which there may be even more of than usual. Everything went well, but a part of him very much longs to return to a quieter role and with a little less weight on his shoulders. Sadly, he does not think it is going to happen soon.

When she's done, he stretches out on the bed on his side, content to rest his head in her lap as he processes through his thoughts and intents from the day, Kohanya's fingers absently stroking over his hair as she reads. He is starting to think he may actually even fall asleep when they travel further, curiously tracing the jagged outline of a set of old lines across his bicep and shoulder. "Where is this from, Aymeric?"

He reaches his other arm across to let his fingers meet hers, following the same outline. "A dragon attack on my squadron. An old one, before Dalamud fell. We were hard pressed and perhaps the armor wasn't being kept in quite as good repair as it should have been or the dragon was a particularly strong and nasty one, and it went right through the mail with its claws." He smiles wryly. "Didn't stop us from taking it down, but it made sure I'd remember." 

The scholar's fingers lace into his own, grasping on gently. When she speaks, her voice is soft, almost melancholy. "Estinien always wanted to know about my scars… From that first night on. I never was totally sure if he liked the stories or was just being overprotective. I wish… I'd had the chance to ask after more of his." She lets go of the knight's hands, moving along the length of his bare arm, lingering over more of the many mars upon his soldier's skin. For a moment, they brush the far too fresh ones he takes care to hide at his wrists and the knight draws tight with tension and memories, but she moves on, turning his hand to let her study a faded mark across the back of it. "I propose we make a game of it, before sleep. I may pick three of yours and ask, and you can pick three of mine?" She turns to lean down, curling her spine in a decidedly feline manner to be able to press lips to his forehead.

Aymeric is no fool; despite her carefully stepping around it directly, this is meant to be an opening to get him to talk to her, sooner or later, about what happened in the Vault, because while Estinien's approach to things has tended to be to simply provide presence and _adamantly avoid actual discussion_ , the same cannot be said for Kohanya. On the other hand, she actually is willing to openly admit affection in casual conversation so… there are trade-offs. Still, he hesitates, torn between his own curiosity and the knowledge it would likely be best to unburden against the desire to simply press away from the memories and pretend they will fade into non-existence. Finally, still hesitant but determined to keep building their connection, the knight nods his agreement. "You know I might have trouble speaking of some, but I trust you."

Her fingers draw back up along his arm, then his neck, into his hair, then starting to slowly stroke over the back of his ear near the base. After a second, Aymeric realizes it's the same soothing petting motion that he and Estinien use on her, just adapted to elezen ears, and he is startled by the fond smile that ghosts over his lips as she answers him. "I do, and I hope you do. I'll do my best to be sensitive, hmm?"

Carefully, he shifts to roll onto his back, looking up at her, unsurprised when she leans down to kiss him lightly before he can say anything more. 

\-----

The days pass, and Aymeric knows today is not going to be one of the good ones when he wakes, gasping, before dawn and finds the bed already empty and cold. Since it was _neither_ of those things when he fell asleep, he mutters out a weary curse at her refusal to wake him and shoves himself out from under the covers, stumbling into a set of proper clothes. He has a few bells til he is expected anywhere, and perhaps, if he is lucky, he can find her before then. Unsurprisingly, if unfortunately, one of the maids confirms that no one saw her leave. After a moment of consideration, he grabs a heavy fur-lined coat, gloves, and hat and shrugs them on before venturing out into the early morning chill.

Little more than instinct guides him, at first, and while the degree to which his garb lessens his anonymity is promptly lost if he speaks to anyone, he finally finds a few people who saw her in the waning hours of the night. All point him onwards to the Brume, where he hopes to no avail to find that she's visiting with her fellow warrior, and then amidst suspicious glares and dark looks, on even deeper, into the winding abandoned paths of the lower levels, crumbling from disrepair and dragon damage. As he edges carefully around a worrisomely large pit, he wonders if he is being even more foolish than she is in following her thus. After all, she can heal herself, and he has seen some of the leaps and flips she can manage when wielding her rapier.

Still. Every time he spots a scuffed small foot mark in deep dust or snow brushed aside where the cobbled stone is opened to the skies, Aymeric thinks he is on the right path. If anything, it's easier here, where he can apply the basic tracking skills that every soldier learns. He emerges from the coil of a winding staircase of dubious provenance and the stones open unto what was once a wide, railing-lined walkway that opens towards the north and west. A small form, the deep sunset purple of her hair whipping in the wind and coat doing likewise, is leaned against the rail, almost perilously so, gaze locked far into the distance.

Slow and careful, letting boots scuff against stone and snow, Aymeric approaches Kohanya. She spins before he gets close, reaching for her tome, then goes still and startled on seeing him. For a span of heartbeats, they merely stare at one another, her face marked by tracks of tears that have frozen on the outer edge of her lashes, his worn and creased with care and worry. They stand, a yalm or two apart, and he breathes shallowly, waiting, before he ventures, carefully, as if scared of frightening a wild animal, "You did not wake me this time."

She looks away, one arm wrapping across her chest to grip the other, head turning down and to the side, her ears flattening against her hair a little. "... No. I suppose I should have, but I just… Some irrational part of me thought maybe the cold would freeze the memories away. Silly of me." He means to keep his distance, but the mention makes her shiver, and the knight can no longer bear it, closing the space between them with careful steps and pulling her in to clasp tight to his chest. She nestles into the warmth of him and his coat, and a little of the fear melts away as he is able to keep his arms around her, feel her with him, even if trembling and still weeping slowly.

"You are allowed your bad nights too, but please, share them, don't disappear. I can't--" It is a surprise even to him when his voice shakes, and the Lord Commander has to swallow hard, Aymeric spreading fingers wider against her back, as if in touching more of the scholar's form he will somehow keep her better bound to him. "Please. Don't leave me alone." The shame of the statement of weakness, when he meant to comfort her, burns, even as her arms twine his waist and her damp face noses softly against his chest, trying to salve in return.

"I'm sorry. I just… The same image, in my dreams, again and again, and I…" In his arms, a woman who faces dragons and primals and the Garlean Emperor unflinching trembles and hides away. "Too much of what I knew of _his_ nightmares mixed in and I could bear the loneliness no more. Not that you were not there, but…" She moves one hand around, twisting the fabric of his doublet into her fist, as if in an anchor. "It cracked your soul, I think, like it did mine, but you don't -- you can't _\-- see_ it like I do. Ta was there, she saw it, but to her, it's just… unfortunate. Not…" There is a quiet hiccup under her words. "It's so selfish of me, to wish someone could understand both. How could I wish that on someone else? So, I came here. Where I can look towards the Aery and let the wind chill away enough of my heart to keep moving."

Terribly careful, he steps back enough to cup his hands over her cheeks, turning Kohanya's face up to his and studying eyes like wine. Equally careful, he brushes his lips over hers, a delicate whisper of touch. "I am entrusting you with the darkest of my secrets, dear heart. You can do the same, even the ones that you think make you terrible and know I will never agree." His thumbs soothe over wet patches, trying to soak the tears into the knitted wool of his gloves before the tracks freeze on her skin. "Whether I can understand or not, I will bloody well _try_ to be there for you in every way possible."

For a moment, she's quiet, then with another hiccuping sniffle, her hands come to rest atop his, voice a starkly honest whisper. " _Aymeric_. If you were come to lure me to the hells with your tongue of gold, I would already be fallen." She smiles and it is weak, but true. "I love you. I should say it openly because I never could to Estinien." All at once, he is not sure if he is frozen to the core or alight on every ilm with a dragon's breath. He had known -- had been fairly sure, at least -- but they have both carefully danced through implications and words of love and affection but without ever saying it, direct and open.

Swallowing heavily, the elezen leans down, rests his forehead to hers, his voice equally soft and painted with certainty. "I did not know it would mean so much to hear you say it so. I love you as well, my darling, and yes, him too." His tone grows a touch weary and wry, and he wishes he could stamp out the uncertainty, but that would be a lie. "... If you can save him, someday, maybe I will make him listen to that."

Kohanya tilts her face up, turning it til her lips brush his, then pressing in deeply, lifting up onto her toes to compensate for her far more meager height compared to his. Compared to the chill air, with the distant light of dawn filtered by the towering bulk of Ishgard above them and the facing of the view, she is a shocking contrast of warmth and light to his skin and heart, aglow and tasting of winter winds and cinnamon. When her teeth graze his lower lip, the faint point of fangs dragging over soft flesh, and she pulls back, the lock of eyes to his brilliantly intense, emotions already scraped raw and open by her disappearance and then the confession flare like a midwinter's solstice bonfire. With a low growl, Aymeric sweeps his healing warrior into his arms and looks around the abandoned and ruined walkway, finding a toppled column not too far away.

Carrying her tucked close to his chest, he begins to make way for it as she laughs in surprise. "What are you--?"

Aymeric cuts her off, tender and exposed with heat and need. "When I am late making it back to the Congregation, it will be your turn to make it up to Lucia. But right now, I want you more than I want to not make a fool of myself showing up suspiciously late." When Kohanya blinks up at him, he settles her to sit on the fallen stone, and presses himself between her knees, dragging gloves off to shove them in a pocket so he can place hands on her shoulders to steady himself as he kisses her again, hot and claiming. The knight has no intent to give her time to comment or protest; right now, all he can hear ringing in his blood is the pure truth of _love_ , of a soft voice declaring it for _him_ , for her feeling it despite all the flaws and shadows he sees himself: his bastard heritage, his father's rejection and disappointment, his raw ambition and determination, the weakness of his heart for a half-wild and doomed dragoon, the scars and shadows of his time in the Vault, his blind optimism. She has seen him brave and she has seen him broken and still, not only is she here, abrim with power and potential unseen in Eorzea, but she looks at him with the same awe tempered by true knowledge that he sees her and _she speaks it_.

It should be a small, easy thing. But for him, it is not, it never has been, and it means _everything_.

His hands shift, scrambling at the fasteners to her coat and robes, opening it over her chest just enough to slip a hand within to find the soft weight of a breast filling his hand. Her nipples draw almost instantly into painfully hard peaks in the gusts of early morning breeze and they both moan. Oh, it is lovely, hearing that eagerness, and he finds the nub, digs fingertips to pinch around it, pulling hard, making her arch into him. Clever fingers are pulling at his belt, loosening it, not even waiting to properly undo the trousers beneath before wriggling under the waistband, curling around him, awkward angle or not. That's alright; his care isn't for the finesse of the touch, but the sheer joy of feeling her _wanting_ for him, as those soft fingers focus on the head of his shaft, swipe and stroke where they can.

The kiss is broken when a need for air becomes too much, and she buries her face against his ear, laughing breathlessly as she continues to tease him. "You better hope as few people come down into these _abandoned_ areas as you claim do." With a low rumble, he uses his nose to nudge her head up, give him access to the soft flesh of her neck, where he can lick and bite and suck, leaving a shameless trail of marks over her skin. No one else is fool enough to come here and if they do, they damn well can live with seeing him mark a claim on his _love_. 

Focused enough on leaving another love bite over the beat of her pulse, it takes a moment for Aymeric to realize that Kohanya has managed not only to properly unfasten his pants, but is doing her best to drag her coat and robes up over her thighs. Hiding a grin against her throat, he reaches down to help and drags the bunched fabric higher, earning him a squeal of protest when an errant wind pebbles her skin with goosebumps. A quick shift of hands and a tug guides her to wrap legs around his waist under his coat, the long length of it granting a little more protection from the cold. Not that he feels it, with the slick heat of her sex all but against his shaft, at least until he can drag her undergarments to the side and properly rock against her, reveling in the feel of how easily he can slide against her folds and damp curls.

"Aymeric…" Her voice is breathy and tremulous with arousal and the rapid pace of her breathing, and the knight bites down on her throat just to hear it catch again, even as her hand slips to that nexus of heat and contact and grasps, angling. Her hips tilt, she rocks, pushes him away slightly, shifts, guides -- and with a moan from them both, the hot flare of him falls into place and spears into her, just enough. Wanting no more than to be as close as possible, he winds arms around her torso, drags her against him, rocking in deeper, plunging til rooted and sheathed to the last ilm, til he can feel her pulse and squeeze in tight clasp of inner walls.

Drawn by heart and instinct, mouths find one another again, and they are both burning, devouring, adoring, kissing with the desperation of lovers too full of the acidic spark burn of knowing their own hearts. Together, they rock, twined and wrapped and held close, sharing heat and presence. The faint waft of sweat and sex is caught on the icy air, spicing it, and if some of their shivers are the cold rather than the heat of pleasure, it only intensifies it all. Her hand between them draws tight circles around her clit, making her cunt pulse and milk him in time, and so soon, Aymeric finds himself gasping at the clutch, pressing in harder, teeth closing on Kohanya's lower lip and feeling it swell softly with the attention as he sinks and swells and it all bursts from him like the blinding light of a star gone supernova in the sky, nothing but heat and pleasure and acceptance and _certainty_. Her own trilling gasp a second later is lost in his skin and they grind to a halt, panting and weakened, still clasped together like hands in prayer.

It takes a few minutes for either to want to move again, before she drops aching legs and Aymeric tries to withdraw and straighten, feeling his own legs wobbling. He glances towards the sky, squinting a little. "... Maybe if I walk _very_ fast, I shan't be too terribly late beyond my normal appearance." He turns his gaze back to the scholar, not bothering to try and resist the urge to steal another, gentler kiss from Kohanya's lips. "Go back to the manor, my love, please. Take the day to _rest_ , even if I cannot."

She visibly debates for a moment, then sighs, smile blooming across her face like a flower opening for the sun. "For you, yes. Just today." Carefully wiggling forward, she hops down, helping him redress as she giggles softly. "... Other than perhaps a stop at Crozier to have a bottle of wine sent to Lucia's home in apology for stealing you in your most productive morning hours." As she tugs his belt back into place, then takes his hand in hers, glancing back towards the stairs that led the way here, she murmurs softly, "Just tell her you were struck stupid with love. She'll forgive us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to feed your author with comments. XD


	22. In the Icy Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've been terribly slow lately as I work on perhaps too many projects; I hope it is forgiven. We're slowly starting to move into that first patch content!

Somewhere, deep in the Churning Mists, Estinien dreams. In truth, he knows 'dream' is in no way a true word for it; he does not sleep, he does not wake. The dragoon floats in darkness and hate not his own, tormented and locked away, an insect in amber besieged by nightmares. He knows not what else he could call the dissolution and distresses of an enforced idle mind, however. In the better moments, Nidhogg is consumed with his own doings; Estinien is left to his own memories, be they ill-tided or impassioned, gentle or ghastly. When he can, he lingers on those that still bring the futile threads of hope to braid together and sustain his tie to who he once was, that wake some ghostly smokeshade of warmth in his rotting soul. Memories of eyes like chips of ice but never so warm as when they behold him; a sword-callused hand in his hair, gripped to hold him close and turning his head to meet a kiss; the heavy weight of a body against him in a soldier's simple bedroll where he wakes warm and contented. The gentle touch of a delicate-boned hand to his cheek as morning light filters through a tent; the soft sound of a pleasured wail disappearing into another mouth as his teeth mark pale skin; the sight of lips curved into a smirk beneath the rim of a broad hat moments before a low voice murmurs teasing words for his ears alone. These small moments, like flecks of falling light, cannot be twisted so easily as the longer ones.

This does not mean Nidhogg has no ability to torment him, merely that in instances of rare luck, he can grant the smallest moments of mercy or comfort to himself. The dreams of his childhood, shattered and spent like a smashed glass, come to him again and again under the wyrm's sway, in flame and ash, smoke and soot and blood, in bodies scattered like broken dolls. His father impaled by a falling beam of their cottage. He had tried to cover his body and couldn't because of the beam, he remembers. All too clearly, now, again and again, his trembling child's hands seen through teary eyes as he tries to tuck ash-stained fabric to cover empty eyes that had once gazed at him with protective guidance. His mother, her pale hair dark with dirt and debris, crushed and torn, laid uselessly across his brother, too pale, oh, so much paler against the dark stain surrounding them. By the time he had gotten into the room to find them, Estinien had given up on doing anything, other than standing and staring, lost in horror. In his nightmares, he hears screaming when he remembers it. Nidhogg does not allow such illusions. All is stillness, and the crackle of flame, the howling of winds, the distant panicked bleating of karakul, and his young body, wracked with panicked shivers, standing all alone in a world gone silent of all that he had known and loved before that second.

The great wyrm knows the other nightmares too, those conjured not by memory but by imagination, the deep-seated fears that reveal the tattered cracks of his battle-worn soul. Nidhogg lingers in exploring those, enjoys playing with promises on how he could make them real, revels in the images he finds to thrust back upon his captive. Dragon teeth and claws rending flesh and bone dearest to him, time and again, the sounds of screaming pain, the terrible silence when they cut off. Faces and limbs gone slack in death, pale aquamarine gone white and filmy, blood red lost in a wounded and torn mask of their own hue. The containers of the souls he treasures far beyond his own worthless one, reduced to no more than ground meat and food for ravenous wyverns. Stone walls that fall and split apart until all of Ishgard crumbles away into nothing in the depths of the void. Destruction and devastation, murder and mayhem. No matter how many times Nidhogg gleefully returns these notions to his mind, no matter how many variations, they tear at him no less.

The worst, he thinks, is when the young dragonets descend like ravens, to pluck and eat their eyes, much as his damned and damnable ancestors did Ratatoskr's. 

But Nidhogg cannot focus on tormenting him at all times. Despite the interminable waves of rancor, of hate, of bitter pain, that batter against his very self endlessly, in the small moments, he repeats a mantra to himself: Aymeric is still alive. Kohanya is still alive. Alphinaud is alive. His foolish, optimistic idiots, the few people he loves or has allowed himself to think of as family. He holds no hope of freedom, but one of those three… One of them will find the dark side of the love in their hearts and grant him mercy. And he? He will adore them for it, forever, or in the mere seconds he has remaining. They will not let him stay in this torment unending. Not the boy, he hopes… It will break whoever does it but he will understand and forgive them and they will, in the end, save each other without him. The thought is beautiful and sharp, and it cuts his heart to draw fresh rivers of red blood, but it is still the purest form of hope he can find to cling to.

\-----

The worst of winter is beginning to lessen, or so the locals swear to Kohanya whenever the weather comes up. She is honestly far from certain she'll truly be able to tell the difference, but there's no point in yanking away anyone else's fun when they insist otherwise. So, she keeps to her work and her crafting and her nightmares and, mostly, to the warm company of Aymeric or Atara or the Fortemps. Although she has made attempts to sneak off when the darker moods take her, it's gotten significantly harder since Aymeric somehow talked Atara into moving out of the Brume and into the guest wing of the manor. 

(And she feels a fool for not having _realized_ there was a difference between the two sets of bedrooms until Isidore gently explained to her that the rooms she and Estinien theoretically stay in are actually supposed to be family chambers from the long-ago days when House Borel had more than one child, as is the fourth, locked room that once belonged to Aymeric's parents. It also adds further to her distant indignation at Estinien's previous attempts to claim he did not live in the manor; there's no way _he_ hadn't known the difference.)

Aymeric's also planning _something_. She does not know what, yet, but he's staying too late at work again, and when he comes home, it's with distracted smiles and evasive answers that he'll let her know soon enough. Oh, arguably it's _fair_ , seeing as she has no real formal role in Ishgard's government… or society, practically, other than the equivalent of a respected knight, which means no one snarls nasty things where they can be easily overheard, but not that she has any voice of any true meaning. _He would be offended to hear you think that… but it is not wrong._ While, on the whole, she has trust in his good intentions, she has far less in their successful enactment amidst the chaos; the worrying only makes her restlessness worse.

It is a relief when, all too promptly on the wake of the news that Tataru has arranged for help to be arriving soon, she and Alphinaud are called and the full story finally disclosed. That Aymeric's worries, too, include that too much is happening too fast and some may overreact with violence, is a further cause for concern although it is nice to know he is at least _aware_ of the risks. Then again, he is, _most of the time_ , a sensible man. As his idea is developed further, she purses her lips, Kohanya resting her weight on the balls of her feet, turning it over in her mind. Treating with the dragons is a reasonable choice, and Lucia _is_ the logical person to send in his stead. It just… Well. She fusses overmuch, no doubt. It will only be a few nights travel at the uttermost, and perhaps as little as two if she is lucky. 

Besides, Hilda and the watch seem alert, Tataru in a good mood, and Edmont gives reassurances that he will be keeping the Lord Commander company when possible while she is out of the city. (If all while eyeing her with a gleam in his gaze that reminds her, humiliating, of a _very_ awkward conversation the previous week involving her _alchemical skills_ and adjustments she'd best be making for _elezen anatomy_ because he had no intentions of becoming an honorary grandfather yet. She still suspects that, somehow, Alphinaud put him up to it, and when she proves it, oh, there are going to be _hells_ for her friend.) With a carefully packed satchel, well used to what to expect for the Forelands by now, they take their leave for the long ride through the Western Highlands, as Lucia is, like most people, not about to be able to use the aetherythes to shorten travel.

They spend a night in Tailfeather. Kohanya would say they slept the night, but it is not really true in her case, at least; once she's sure Lucia and Alphinaud are out, she leaves the cabin and, using the ivy vines as handholds, climbs atop the small structure housing the mechanics of the water wheel. Marcechamp squints at her on his way through on a late patrol, then shrugs and waves. It appears the hunters are used to odd behaviors. Settling back to lean on her hands, she watches the stars and conjures wraiths of memory, preferring their presence to the emptiness of being here without Estinien or Ysayle. 

She's tired and worn in the morning but can't bring herself to regret it as they settle packs back onto chocobos and head for Anyx Trine. There is no arguing and posturing this time; Lucia is calm and steady and while a soothing view, definitely far from prior liveliness. She also rather fancies that Alphinaud makes an effort to appear even more "adult" with Lucia around, as if he's trying to live up to her projected image. That, at least, is a thought that grants her the occasional smile.

Vidofnir is reasonably welcome and Lucia comports herself with all the admirable grace that one would expect; that the Gnath are abuzz with trouble again is unfortunate, but perhaps not a problem with no solution. Still, the company is soon split; Lucia to return to Ishgard and bring word that the dragons are in consideration, while she and Alphinaud will go further outwards, seeking the Sharlayan ruins and the arriving scholar. Once alone, Kohanya settles into badgering the young elezen ruthlessly to try and determine the truth about that little _lecture_ : it's only until they're well past the border of the Hinterlands that he finally stops his chocobo and turns to face her, throwing a hand up in exasperation. "You are almost as bad as having Alisaie dodging my every step again, and just as impulsive! Yes, of course I asked him to remind you to take _care of your safety!_ "

She does not say anything else at the time, just narrows her eyes and waits. Kohanya is fairly sure that makes him nervous and it _should_. She is not stupid enough to start something in the middle of Illuminati territory, though. At the Bigwest Shortstop, however? 

Alphinaud is starting to climb back onto his chocobo after talking to the locals when she uncaps her canteen and empties the whole thing over the top of his head, watching it drip down his neck and under his shirt collar with a great deal of satisfaction. "You're not my older brother and if you try and get _involved_ with my virtue again, in any way, I will _have words with Tataru_ about your need for a sexual education, am I clear? I will provide her with _diagrams_ to show you." The young elezen sputters, and starts to say something back, which she calmly ignores as she caps the canteen and puts it back into her bag. "Try and keep up." Digging heels gently into her chocobo's sides, she tugs on the reins, and veers north towards Idllyshire. 

\-----

The new arrival, Krile, is _delightful_. Entirely because she has known Alphinaud a long time and is eager enough to torment him that she ought to keep him off her case entirely for the next span of time. It is glorious. Also, slightly terrifying, but she can't imagine she has quite so many secrets to be exploited as that of anyone who knew someone else in their young adolescent years. With the academic and Y'shtola now among their company, the group heads _back_ to the south to Matoya's isolated cave to look for more information on Thancred. Kohanya finds herself contented to listen to the other three chatter, idly filing away bits of information gleaned from the conversation and teasing in her mind as she does, the air here crisp but surprisingly pleasant while the sun still shines. 

She wishes she could have known this land before the comet and the snows, but if she only found it now, at least she has it. Of a mercy, Matoya seems equally open to helping Krile, although that may be because they both seem to have a streak of mischief-making as wide as it is long. Although perhaps she does not currently have room to point fingers, in that regard. That Krile turns out also to possess the Echo explains a little of the instant feeling of welcome kinship; Minfilia and Atara and Ysayle have all done that to her too. Once again, she finds herself keeping observations to herself and filing away what is slipped for later contemplation, as the investigation proves to be leading them straight back towards Sohm Ahl. 

She is halfway to the door when a quiet voice interrupts her. "Girl. Yes, you, the one who keeps pretending she's a mute."

Startled, Kohanya steps back deeper into the cavern, head tilted to use her hat to better cover her face. "Is there something I can do for you, Master Matoya?"

"You could start speaking up more, but for today…" Eyes hard but wise, the elder contemplates her for a moment. "You and Louisoix's grandson both have the look of people inclined to taking risks from sheer stubborn cussedness. Remember that a sacrifice undone because you don't take advantage of the opening it gave you is a sacrifice wasted."

Her own jaw tightens for a moment. "I have no particular plans now, other than to continue my duties. I assure you, if there is something _other_ that comes for my attention, I shall make the effort of coming to discuss it with you. Will that suit?"

Matoya laughs like dry reeds cracking in the wind. "It'd suit me more if I thought you'd actually listen when you did. Go on. Catch up with your companions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to feed your author with comments, it turns out I'm as much of a pitiful serotonin starved beast as the rest and live for them.


	23. The Cutting Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More little steps forward into patch-y goodness. Hopefully.

Dutifully, they trek to Tailfeather, speak with the hunters (with the help of Alphinaud's impressively detailed sketch as a reference for who they are seeking), then move on to speak to the Vath as well as they try to track down Thancred. From there, all too quickly, on towards the Gnath's fortress and a returned Ravana. They are steeled for the possibility of battle yet what is found instead…

That she and Atara are not the only warriors who can fell a Primal, never mind the protection of the Echo, is enough of a surprise. That there are _so many of them_ , clearly used to working in tandem, not to mention the fact that they claim the less than friendly sobriquet of "Warriors of Darkness." Admittedly, the fact that they dealt with Ravana then proceeded to attack _them_ is far from insignificant. After barely enough time to get nervous, however, they are interrupted by the appearance of Thancred, as dramatically timed as possible. (Apparently, getting dumped naked in the countryside does not change much about a person.)

With the retrieval of their missing friend successful and Vidofnir having passed on the word in the wake of the Gnath being once again without a manifested God that she will agree to the meeting with Ishgard, by the time they depart to return to the city Kohanya is feeling fairly optimistic. Traveling back with Thancred, seeing as he cannot use an aetheryte he's never visited, takes them through the night, only reaching Ishgard proper in the first dim glow of dawn light. The city feels strangely heavy as she hands her rented chocobo over to one of the handlers, an uncomfortable itching between her shoulder blades.

Still, their news is good, and they make haste for the Congregation. Given the excessive hours some people work when she is not around, Kohanya even brightens a little, looking forward to getting to greet Aymeric for the morning. Instead, they find Lucia and Hilda, looking tired and urgent.

The itch intensifies, now joined by a slow frost creeping out from her belly. She only half-processes Alphinaud's comments to Lucia; the instant she hears the words, "If only the Lord Commander were here to hear them," from the Garlean woman's lips, it seems like the world has frozen. White and still, breath rushing in her ears, she sways slightly, sure something is direly wrong.

Which it is, as Hilda's bitter comment about a "knife to the gut" confirms. Blindly, she reaches, lightly bracing one hand against Alphinaud's shoulder, using him for support as her gaze lifts to the half-breed woman, red eyes on red eyes, knowing her own are no doubt panicked, pupils shrinking in fear. She can catch the phrase "full recovery" from Lucia, enough to thaw a little of the ice that seems to have encased her. At least let her breathe again.

That she could have lost _both_ of them, so quickly… The idea makes her dizzy all over again. There is some sort of attempted discussion about sending her along to look for arsonists and she blinks awareness back into her eyes, suppressing a brief urge to actually _growl_. "Get Ta. Take her. You know where I'm going." Her chin lifts defiantly (perhaps unnecessarily, since all there is on Lucia's face at that insistence is resigned weariness, while she thinks Hilda is more amused than anything.) Without waiting for a response, she reaches for familiar currents, cursing the delays that kept them from Ishgard until morning, and _grasps_ for the aetheryte of Aymeric's ( _her_ ) home.

\-----

As soon as she can feel her feet return to familiar ground, Kohanya flings herself forward towards the back door, opening it and darting within.

Only to have to jump back, spine slamming into the doorframe, when a sword is suddenly at her throat. 

It takes a moment for her to recognize that the person holding it on her is a Temple Knight, and surely here as some sort of a guard. Letting out a shaky breath, she eyes the helmeted form, her voice winded. "Did someone forget to tell you about the other people staying here?" There is a clatter of rapidly walking feet from the hallway, and she can spot Isidore's grey hair over the man's shoulder. Lifting her voice, she calls out, "Isidore? Can you please assure this young man that I am both a Warrior of Light and a guest in this house, and that if he stabs me, Aymeric is going to be _significantly unhappy?_ "

The steward looks more than a little tired as he lays a hand on the knight's shoulder, voice even and polite. "I am fairly sure you were all briefed that the two Warriors are in residence and that one may stop by. Since I have done you the favor of confirming the young lady's identity, perhaps you could be so good as to let her through? My lord was rather clear that she was to come speak with him on her return to Ishgard."

"Even if she's the Warrior of Light, she's still got a weapon on her."

For a few flat seconds, Kohanya stares, then with exaggerated care, she undoes the straps holding her tome. She holds it up, raising her brows, then shoves it into Isidore's hands before ducking past the two men, trusting that to be enough. She can hear a faint protest in her wake, and more of the serving man's soothing voice as she pelts up the stairs.

A second knight stands outside the door to Aymeric's room; this one, however, apparently knows her on sight as his hand is quickly taken back off the hilt of his sword as she closes the difference and pauses, hand on the doorknob. "... Do you know? Is he awake?"

"Don't know, miss, it's been a bell since the chirurgeon left."

Hesitant, she nods, then turns the knob, stepping within and closing the door again behind her. The dim morning light from the cloudy sky streams in through the windows, supplemented by a candle in a lantern at the bedside. Much as he had been the last time he was injured — the first time she was ever _in_ this room — Aymeric has managed to prop himself up with the pillows, allowing him to comfortably flip through a stack of paper reports he grasps in one hand. Despite his determination to work until the bitter end, there's signs enough that the injury was not nothing; his face is paler than usual, shadowed under the eyes from lack of sleep, and she knows the knight more than well enough now to easily read the tension of pain in his body language. He looks up when the door opens, not as on edge as he should be — the man was _stabbed_ in his _own city_ within the past night! — and lips curl up into a warm smile of delight at her return. "Anya!"

Stalking over to the bed, she grabs the sheaf of papers and tugs it out of his hand. (He lets go, barely, before they rip.) These are summarily dropped on the dresser before she returns, gaze narrowing. "If the healers from the church put you in bed for the day, they didn't fully heal away the wound. Let me see it."

Hands folding over his belly with a faint wince, Aymeric considers her for a second, expression fading back from the smile to steady, steely calm, reflected in his voice. "Not until you promise you won't heal me."

For a few seconds, Kohanya merely stares at him blankly, mind refusing to fully process the request. Then it sinks in and she blurts out before further thinking happens, "Why in all of Nymeia's threads would I _promise not to do the one thing I'm good at_?"

That earns her an even sharper look, enough to make her shrink back, however minutely. "This would not have happened without there being those in Ishgard who resent my interference and the decline of the church. If I show up, already fully healed at the hands of a foreign agent…" Aymeric gives a slight, regretful shake of his head. "It would only cause more resentment in that faction and turn some of it onto your head. Neither is a desirable outcome."

It's a struggle to suppress the urge to clench her hands, fingers trembling minutely, especially as she remembers the guard downstairs insisting she leave her tome behind. Gaze accusatory, she hisses softly, "And allowing you to scar or endure an infection because you're too damn stubborn is?"

His outward expression is still calm, but she can catch the very slight tightening of muscles across his shoulders, the way Aymeric's own gaze briefly darts aside, guilty, before he lifts it again to meet her own. "Non-magical treatments only, Anya. For my good and yours. If asking that is more than you can take, I will not hold it against you to keep to your own chambers while I am healing."

The idea of _that_ , of not being here for and with him while he recovers, is even worse than the idea of not healing him. A few breaths more and she caves, head bowing in a rather shaky nod. "As you insist. I'm—" she hesitates a moment in consideration, then sighs, "Going to wash up and change. When I come back, I would like to at least be able to see. Please." Without waiting for a response, although she sees the moment when his eyes press closed as if pained, the scholar turns and grabs a clean set of clothes, disappearing into the washroom.

When she returns, changed into a loose tunic and pants that will pass muster as either sleep wear or relaxed clothing for the home, Aymeric holds out one arm in silent invitation. Still hesitant given the wound and his — well, it wasn't really a _lecture_ , but she still didn't like it much — the scholar climbs onto the empty part of the bed and rather carefully settles herself in at his side, under the shelter of that arm. Even before checking for the wound, she wraps arms around his upper chest, squeezing tightly, and presses her face into his shoulder. Once she's sure of the reality of him, the steady pace of his breathing, the solid thump of his heart, and the familiar scent of his skin, gradually, some of the tautness in her muscles starts to soothe itself.

"I'm sorry, I… came back and I heard…" Kohanya looks up, met by the soft press of lips against her forehead and a hand gently smoothing over her ears.

"I would expect it to have been a rather unpleasant shock. I swear, the healers did do their best." Even just the steady depths of his voice helps calm her near panic further. Reaching down, she tugs up his shirt, looking for the bandage — not that it is _hard_ to find, since it covers damn near to half of his belly. Very carefully, she skirts fingertips around the edges, reaching out with just enough of her aether to confirm his claims; no infection, the damage internally not to anything too major, and thoroughly cleaned and covered. The temptation to just nudge the healing a _little_ is almost painful in its intensity and she pulls her hand back with a hiss, rewrapping arms around Aymeric's form.

"I didn't hear the whole thing. If Hilda or Lucia even explained it. As soon as I heard you were hurt I—" Kohanya can hear the edge of a sob building in her voice and she swallows hard, pushing the feeling back down as much as she can. Staying curled in close to his taller form, she traces fingers along his shoulder, stroking slowly as much to soothe herself as him.

A slightly wry smile tugs at Aymeric's lips as he continues to rub at her ears, taking shameless advantage of the soothing and often soporific effect to calm her further. "After my last meeting of the day, I was walking home through the Brume with Lord Edmont and Artoirel. It _is_ a little shorter that way and I need to see all parts of the city and let them see me. A man bumped against me, or so I thought at first." Her nose wrinkles up, easy enough to fill in the pieces there. "I understand Artoirel was able to subdue him before he got more than a few fulms further on. With Lord Edmont's assistance, they were able to bring guards to me quickly. I do not think anyone has had time to question the attempted assassin, especially as I made it quite clear that I will not have anyone using the Inquisition's methods to do so." The Lord Speaker's face is briefly cast into a dark scowl, all too similar memories coming to both minds.

With a brief noise of discontent, Kohanya shifts to lean up, pressing lips firmly against Aymeric's. She holds the kiss for a long few moments, lets it wash away a little of the worry and pain, then pulls back, voice gentler now. "If I know you, you also failed to sleep much after being healed and dealing with all that, yet still I come home to find you doing work already." One hand lifts, gently tucking his misplaced forelock back into place. "We rode all night, I'm exhausted. Will you get some rest, with me, if I ask?"

"I confess that I do find it easier to imagine giving in to the need for sleep with you safely returned and at my side. Even if I am curious as to the outcome of your ventures." Aymeric gives her another smile, even as she tries to guide him down into actually lying in bed, instead of sitting in it upright, keeping herself tucked in against his side.

  
As she pulls covers around them, Kohanya murmurs, "Vidofnir agreed, which is what you _really_ want to know. Although we did find another Scion. That, however, is something you can be filled in on once you have _rested and recovered_ , my dear heart."


	24. Catch You As You Fall

Afternoon light still spills golden as a halo through the window when there is a sharp rap on the door. Aymeric stirs into awareness promptly, having to gently shift Kohanya's still exhausted form off his as he snags a housecoat, pulling it on over his more casual clothing as he goes to see what the interruption is. He can hear the soft sounds of the warrior trying to resist awakeness and failing and only barely manages to suppress a smile before he answers the door. The news carried by the knight is enough that he shortly nods acknowledgement and closes it again, turning to change back into his armor proper, despite the expected protest rising as soon as the healer figures out what, precisely, he is about.

"You cannot _possibly_ be putting on your armor with the intent of leaving this house, Aymeric." Kohanya is trying to scrub the sleep from her eyes, tail lashing back and forth rapidly.

"Hilda and your friends caught the arsonist. This is something that requires my hand on the reins, I am afraid, dear heart. I will not hold it against you if you need to rest more." He smiles back over at the bed, warm and indulgent. Not to any effective purpose, nor did he expect it to be; rather than try and argue, other than a brief glare, she has already rolled off the bed and is scrambling to try and locate a set of her healer's robes. "I take it you would rather I wait for you to accompany me?"

"Yes, of _course_ I would, so when you manage to tear your wound open again someone is there to deal with it!" Her voice is a snap, but it does nothing to conceal the genuine concern and worry for him behind it. Guiltily, a part of him even enjoys a small moment of pleasure at knowing how much it matters to her, having someone other than Lucia or Estinien to fuss at him when he is not well. Even if all three of them seem incapable of doing so without a certain tartness.

Patient as ever, he leans by the door frame until she drags her robe on and grabs the rest of her gear, adding in a mutter as she takes his hand on her way to the door, "I had to leave my tome with Isidore. We can get it on the way out."

\-----

Even before they leave the house, they are intercepted by Lord Edmont and Artoirel, on their way to deliver a wound salve. Kohanya takes it and shoves it into a pocket of her robes, letting Aymeric catch them up on the current state of things as they hurry towards the Congregation. Artoirel catches her arm until she trails them on the walk by a few steps, his steady voice low and quiet. "I assure you; I do not mean to question where you were. I merely was hoping that you had a chance to get a better assessment of the Lord Commander's wound?"

Giving a quick jerk of her head in agreement, Anya's gaze lingers on Aymeric's back as he moves, watching for signs the wound or exhaustion are paining him overtly. "Just that since I was told not to heal it. But it was properly cared for and he should recover, if he doesn't tear it back open." Which is a worry, right now.

She is not the only one considering that, given Lucia's protest when they do reach the Congregation and she takes a moment to flick her gaze over their allies, Thancred and Hilda looking roguish and smug, Atara not so very different, while Lucia and Alphinaud and Y'shtola try and keep the dignified and calm end of the scale covered. Discussion does not even really have the chance to start before they are interrupted with the news that the people behind the arson (and, she privately assumes, the assassination attempt) have taken hostages in the Vault.

Their demands are as impossible as expected. Lips pursed with thought, Kohanya keeps her gaze steady on Aymeric, alert for any hints of weakness as he snaps orders. She appreciates that competence; in other situations, might even find it rather appealing. Right _now_ , however, she is more worried that he's going to push too far, especially when he insists on leading the assault on the Vault this time. For a moment, Estinien's voice murmurs in her mind, but a glance at the stubborn set of Aymeric's jaw is enough that she is sure that on this, he will be inflexible. Well. So long as she is there; he cannot forbid her from healing him if he collapses in the midst of battle, after all. 

Beyond that, she definitely does not miss the moment when the leader of Ishgard still turns to Edmont, unsure, looking for confirmation before taking another of his sons in to face an unknown danger in the halls of the church itself. For a second, her heart clenches in her chest, a spike of white-hot pain, quick suppressed, another moment of mourning she cannot afford to take.

\-----

If he were compelled to truth, Aymeric would have to confess that, never mind the possible political theatre of it, on a purely personal and tactical level having both of the warriors of light in company on approaching the Vault is a reassurance. Even if he is far from as oblivious as he acts as to how one set of their eyes is more watching him worriedly as they enter the fray, never mind that he finds that he is receiving a significant degree more shielding than even Atara, who he's allowing to take the lead. (He thinks _allowing_ , although the more honest phrase is, _does not want to stand between her and the men she is tearing into like a wild thing for their daring to attack her people from the Brume_.)

He is somewhat heartened by how easily they handle rescuing the first two hostages, the bulk of the Scions staying behind to cover their rear and ensure the continued safety of those freed. By the time they climb to the first dias, there are only four of them left, Artoirel and the two warriors flanking him protectively. There is a certain internal weariness of the soul as he recognizes the figure leading the men there; Ser Simeonard, who had prospered under his father's rule. He is not, perhaps, a terribly good man, but not a terribly evil one either, merely someone who blindly believed what they were told by those who could provide him with personal gains.

That even such a man takes his deeds, done for the sake of the nation far ahead of his own self, as innately wrong and wicked is an emotional sting for which there is no real balm. (And to himself, no denying that he agrees at least in part; he _is_ a kinslayer, for all it was not his hand on the sword. He ordered them to take it up, he made the choice, and _oh_ , what he has lost for doing so! But that is not a suffering known or acknowledged, nor would it ever be enough, to minds such as these.) Unlike these men, however, he can truly make the effort to put himself last, sending his comrades in arms off to find and rescue the remaining hostages. The three of them should handle any resistance they encounter, and if any are wounded, Anya can save them.

The question of his own wound and the sharp pain of it are a focus as he holds his blade ready for the attack. With four of them and one of him, no matter how adept he may be (and he would not have risen to the rank he has, heritage aside, if he could not be assured to be at least _competent_ ), most of what he can do is raise and spin, dance with the broad blue width of Naegling to keep their weapons from marring his flesh further. He manages to disarm two of the lesser knights long enough to delay their attacks, allowing a few heavy blows against Simeonard's shield before they recover, and he returns to a more defensive pattern. 

By the time footsteps ring on the stairs behind him, even though he knows it can have only been a matter of minutes, he is already sore and aching from several more minor injuries. He expects Artoirel or Atara to take the lead, knights light or dark, and when instead it's Anya who pelts to the front on soft booted feet, the coolness and cinnamon of her magic whirling into shields around them even as she all but explodes in deep blue-purple light that slams into their foes. Oh, Atara is quick to take off after her and protect her back. Still, it's a moment of shock to him; while he has never doubted her capabilities and has seen her in practice, he has never seen his largely gentle lover alight with _fury_ like she is now, her deft fingers weaving curse and cure with equal ease, viciously determined to keep the foes far from them. So far as that she tries to physically place herself between his own form and Simeonard's at one point. (He is irrationally grateful that Artoirel is the one who spies it and drags her out of the way of a sword strike so it shatters his magical shielding instead of hers; she can't be angry at him and Aymeric simply is _not_ capable of believing she can use a _book_ to effectively block a sword from cleaving her.)

The fight is brief, chaotic, and ends as it must; the "True Brothers" lie boneless and unconscious, scattered over the floor. Atara shoulders her massive greatsword, the au ra rubbing a fleck of blood away from her pink skin with the back of one gauntleted hand. "I'll make sure none of them wakes up while you find the last of the hostages." With a quick nod of thanks, he turns to move for the stairs, confirming what he saw earlier; another hostage — a mere _child!_ — left tied on the landing. When they are freed, however, it is only to further bad news; there is at least one more, a priest, who has gone to the heights with a final hostage.

Nothing good happens in the heights of the Vault. Not before this and perhaps, to his heart, never again.

He can _not_ let a child die at the hands of these mad men! Bad enough that others have suffered for their grudges against him, but to take it out even against the poorest and weakest… Rage is a familiar pulse of heat in his chest, for all he can keep it under control, especially as they achieve the sun and the sight of an elderly priest, dangling a girl from the battlements. Some instinct compels him, and he throws an arm out to prevent a headlong rush of the villain; not before Artoirel, noble knight, but in front of his sweet-natured healer. He knows, even before his head turns enough to catch the dark glower that deepens the bloody pools of her eyes and twists her lips that too much of today has pushed away the limits of that kindness and revealed the bared blade of a person driven in desperation.

Perhaps the Fury feels her own sympathy with that, and the small gesture is enough to subdue her enough to let him try and talk the priest down. 

Words are not enough. Too often in his life, no matter what he has tried, words have not been enough.

The way the priest's face _twists_ as he throws the girl from the ramparts is nearly as terrible as the action itself was. 

Artoirel tackles and subdues the man, but it is far too late. All but numb with horror, Aymeric moves to stand at the edge; he failed to stop this horror and he will not allow himself to look away from every consequence.

What he sees — 

He sees — 

It cannot be real. But it _is_. A white dragon, wings spread, swooping through the air and giving the child a gentle landing, only to bear her to the very ground as safe as can be.

Breath hissing in sharply, certain that he has just witnessed a miracle, Aymeric breaks into a run as he heads back to the stairs, motioning for Kohanya to follow him.

\-----

The words he can exchange with Vidofnir are all too brief, but it allows enough to pass between them; thanks, and future hopes, her evasion when Alphinaud presses the matter of Estinien, wilting the brief bloom of hope in his heart. Not, he thinks, in the boy's however, but the stubborn set of his gaze, and he suspects Anya is not much better. It is easier to not look and allow himself ignorance in this, however. Aymeric can bear many dark things, but crushing her hope as well seems crueler than he can allow.

The dragon departs and Edmont rejoins them, his gentle words of concern puncturing the start of a better mood as Aymeric had pondered the best possible ways that these events could be read. That Edmont fears _for him_ and makes sure to specify in the manner of a son…

The count departs and he has to let out a slightly uneven breath he had not been aware he was holding, even as Anya steps up, a hand slipping into his and holding tight for a long few moments, public place or not. Her voice is soft and gentle again now, as he looks down to meet the pooled wine in her eyes. "You still need rest, _Lord Commander_. Contemplate the events if you must, but not until you have been seen safely returned to your home and your recovery. Is it a deal?" Lips curl up into a slight smile, private and warm, impossible not to return for at least a second.

"Ah. Yes, of course. I would not wish to give you and Lucia any further cause for scolding, after all." A quick gesture from her shoos him off ahead with his second-in-command, his warrior turning to speak to the other Scions for a few minutes, Artoirel already moving to join the group for whatever unknown purpose. Since it seems wisest not to intrude or wait — alright, in no small part because with all the excitement past, he _has_ become aware to the extent of which he has overtaxed his healing body and the pain is becoming rather noticeable — Aymeric heads for home, to rest and wait for her return.

\-----

He does not _mean_ to sleep more, but after changing out of his armor and settling on the chaise by the fire in his room, the warmth and comfort (and the addition of a pain-killing draught) lure Aymeric into a heavy doze nestled amidst the pillows, a blanket tucked over his lap. The quiet sound of the latch catching is still enough to stir him awake; between necessary paranoia and years of Estinien's refusal to consider appropriate ingress and egress when visiting at odd hours, he has had to learn to wake easily. Anya is clearly trying not to disturb him needlessly, so for the moment, he allows her the mistake, watching through barely slitted eyes as she exchanges healer's garb for a lightweight shift.

When she pads across the floor to him, he discards the ruse, lifting one arm in a silent invitation she is quick to accept, moving to curl herself in against his side. More settled with the company, Aymeric gently noses at the dark fall of the miqo'te's hair, murmuring in a low voice, still a little thick from sleep, "What did Lord Artoirel want with you?"

Anya is quiet a beat too long, enough that he expects the threads of raw emotion in her voice, pain and shame and affection in a strange mix. "He gave me and Ta shields… declared us knights of House Fortemps, properly. Touching but sad too, because of the reminders." She smiles, slight and wistful. "I will still bear it with pride. And he told us that Edmont intends to step down soon. I would guess you already knew that?"

Reaching to brush a bit of hair from her eyes, Aymeric makes a sound of acknowledgement to the question. "We have had a few conversations about the matter. It is unfortunate, but I understand his reasoning, and I think Artoirel will do his family proud." A slight pause, and he can feel the hint of a frown tug at his lips, for all he tries to control it. "You were angry today. Far more so than I usually see in you."

Kohanya shifts, looking away to the fire for a moment, then back, a certain darkness in her gaze. "They tried to kill you. They tried to kill _children_. And all because we stepped in to stop a primal who wanted to control them all. I do not always like everything we have to do as Scions, but… We're right about the whole primal thing." Her hand slides to grasp his, fingers intertwining tightly. "It's just frustration at trying to do the right thing and the costs. I suspect you know how that is."

Aymeric can only nod, drawing her closer for a moment to press a kiss to the woman's forehead. "I do. Right now, though, you and I are both still in desperate need of sleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual: Please gib comment serotonin. Please have a lovely day. ♥


	25. And No Birds Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the summer heat is doing its best to melt all the words out of my brain, some are still slipping through.

There are a brief few days, after all that, of relative calm, enough that Kohanya is able to get Aymeric home to rest and continue to heal before it's too far past dinner on a regular basis. Atara takes off for Limsa and then Mor Dhona on an errand from Tataru, gone to meet Minfilia's mother and the Scions accompanying her and helping to escort them back to the Rising Stones. In honest reflection, Anya is just as happy not to go along, but shortly after their return, she finds herself summoned by linkpearl call to Idyllshire, as Krile has determined as possible way to locate Minfilia and since she, unlike the other Warrior of Light, has actually dealt with Matoya before, who they need to consult, it was determined a more full outing may be in order.

There is a brief round of hugs (for Atara and Alphinaud) and warm but less physical greetings for Krile, Thancred, and Y'shtola when they rendezvous in Idyllshire. It's a warm morning when they set out from the city, at least for Coerthas, which mostly means it's sunny and chilly rather than actually _cold_. As a further (mildly) pleasant bonus, this time, Thancred's magically impaired current state that Y'shtola had earlier hinted at seems to draw more of Matoya's attention and, ah, humor than anything else, so Kohanya can do her best to keep herself out of the line of fire, other than that, as she expects, she and Atara are promptly elected to be the ones to venture forth into the Antitower and experience the Aetherial Sea.

While logically, she knows this is unlikely to be the case, some part of Kohanya after years spent around Limsa Lominsa and serving with the Maelstrom has come to expect anything with the word "Sea" in the name to be, in some way, a vast body of water. When the doorway opens into a walkway through a vast underground chamber lined with waterfalls she finds herself oddly disappointed. Or perhaps merely thrown off balance? Rather rapidly, she realizes that her own disorientation is far less than her companion's, however. 

Whenever they are not harried by the local residents, Ta seems to have a hand to her horns, rubbing at them sensitively, although there is nothing to be heard to the miqo'te's ears. Then again, unlike her companion, the spirits do not tend to converse with her people. It makes the moments between combat almost as tense as those when they engage with sword and spell. 

Until they get to the end. The upside castle was a further surreality but in context, not terribly worse. The giggling, dancing, twirling giant dolls though? _Those_ are frankly utterly horrifying. She would rather not face any more living dolls, ever. She is pretty sure Ta agrees, given the way she kicks a piece of one across the room to shatter on the far wall when their amalgamated form collapses. For a moment, then two warriors meet in gaze, both in clear exasperation.

Then the glow comes from within, for both of them, crystals of light igniting. 

It has been so long since she seemed to stand — float — directly in Hydaelyn's presence like this. The first time, it had been warm and comforting, and there is a distant, dull ache as she realizes it no longer is. It's not the nature of her blessing, she thinks, broken and restored, but too many things experienced, too many questions raised in the back of her mind, primals and gods and the notion that perhaps there is no being unflawed out there. After all of that, after Tiamat and Thordan, the comfort of Hydaelyn's presence is a far thinner thing than it once was. 

The revelations that follow leave her confused and reeling and numb with exhaustion. Atara is shook, she thinks, to have found and lost Minfilia so, become the "Voice of the Mother '' which… Is the situation truly so bad? Is the light so weak? The idea sends threads of oily slick ice through her body, doubt and fear spreading like illness. She struggles to pin the thoughts in place in her mind, light and dark, Zodiark and Ardor, rejoinings and cataclysms. If only she can hold onto them enough to write it down, maybe she can make some sense of it, later.

At least her attempt to haltingly explain to the other Scions is seized upon and expanded by Krile. It is her area of study, after all. Alphinaud, though… His denial, his loss, is raw-edged and sharp with the intensity of youth and it scrapes over the bones of her soul to see him struggle to accept the possibility that this time, there truly is nothing to hope for, no one to save, not even any chance. It is a hard thing to face for anyone, but with his lack of real experience, all the more difficult. 

Her heart yearns to try and soothe him… and then he goes and basically orders her not to tell anyone at the Rising Stones, even after Matoya's reminders about the costs of war. For a long moment, she holds the young Elezen's gaze; she doesn't need to voice her disapproval to know the moment that he becomes aware of the weight of it, his eyes skittering away like a frightened mouse before he distracts her with the sop of information that Aymeric has been planning something and needs to speak to her about it. 

\-----

The fact that she has to go to his office to hear about this idea is proof enough that it is going to be something political; so far, Aymeric has shown a resolute dedication to keeping his personal and professional lives as separate as possible. Given the challenges to his authority he already faces, she is hardly going to make objections, at that. Still, it always feels a little strange to be waved through for a formal meeting, to catch the warmth to his smile and eyes that she knows bears no reflection on the desires of Ishgard but is based solely on her own safe return and presence. Despite a desire to reach out to him, take a hand, she stops a few fulms back from his desk and clasps hands in front of herself, playing her part.

It _is_ a rather political matter at that, arranging a formal peace conference between Ishgard and the dragons of Anyx Trine. She knows even afore he asks that her presence will be desired; after all, it was her actions in no small part that earned the friendship of the ancient beings and just as importantly, it was her hands that had shielded Estinien and worn down Nidhogg til he had been ripe for the dragoon to remove that single cursed Eye. Never mind the details of how and why it did not last and the festering in her own heart because of it; security must be had, and who would turn away those who wield the light when they have the option to use them as the weapons they are? She can see the reasons for a bitterness there that slips from her like rain rolling off skin; to feel or hold it does her little use, so she shrugs and leaves it off, trusts to fate.

Her mind is still half-distracted processing implications and secrets when Aymeric suddenly staggers, wincing in pain as he does so. All thought of separating personal and professional is gone as she all but flies to cover the distance, circling around the desk to brace hands on either side of his hips. Lips drawing into a tight line as she tilts her head back to regard his features, finely drawn if lined with pain, Anya mutters quietly, "If you would just have let me heal you properly, this wouldn't happen."

"I thought we had already had the discussion." Aymeric protests mildly, a hand laid atop her own in gently reminded restraint as her eyes narrow.

"We had it and I agreed to listen to you. I did not agree not to remind you I hate seeing you hurt when I could have _done_ something." Very carefully, she rests her hand over the spot where the wound lies beneath armor and fabric, just enough aether trickling out through her fingertips to soothe some of the pain and inflammation around the injury away. "Lucia is right in that if you won't properly rest, you need to keep yourself in control and at least not push too far physically."

Aymeric is not too proud to at least let her do that much for him, even if he gently pulls her hand back and holds it afterwards, as if to ensure the limits of her attempts. "Ishgard can only wait so much, Anya, and I will not have this all fall apart merely because I cannot handle a little pain." He attempts to soothe her immediate scowl of disagreement with a soft smile, wheedling, "I know it is important to you too. You will be there for the peace conference?"

Recognizing her own weakness, Anya can only sigh and then smile, hand clasping close to the one that enfolds it. "Of course, I will be."

\-----

He leaves for the preparations even earlier in the next morning and after at least a little more sleep and a stop to make arrangements to meet Atara there, knowing the other warrior will avoid the simple solution of the aetheryte if she has a choice, Kohanya waits until mid-morning to depart for Falcon's Nest. The extra time affords her the opportunity to speak with Lucia, who seems quite hopeful for the day's events, and of course, to get coaxed into helping with a few of the smaller preparations. It is not unexpected, and she is who she; beyond that, returning to the Falcon's Nest again feels oddly nostalgic, even warm. Alright, so Artoirel had been terrible at first; he has proven a good friend since, to Ta even more so than her. Outside of that…

Well. She steals a few precious seconds between conversations with the arrivals for the conference to stop and stand in the wind at the balustrade looking out over the snow and towards the north; long enough to whisper a soft prayer to be carried to Ysayle's memory and whatever of Estinien might still remain after the transformation she saw. Nymeia's grace, may their destinies have brought and bring them to peace.

By the time Artoirel and Lucia make plans to leave for the Convictor's camp to deal with the more unfortunately stubborn among them, Ta has arrived as well, and she takes some small amount of joy in getting to explain to her that their foster brother has requested they help keep the _other_ member of their adopted family out of trouble. Which is invariably a tall order; although Emmannelain has started to warm up, particularly with her since he realized that out of his legal and honorary family, she's the one most likely to just roll her eyes and support him exasperatedly when he tries to act half the flirt that Haurchefant was. Still, she staunchly maintains that the boy has a good heart, he just needs to grow up. (Atara has informed her, rather more tartly, that what he actually needs is to figure out how to tell if a woman is interested.)

Honestly, even for her, there is a brief bloom of sour taste in her mouth when their _little brother_ orders them off to go kills wolves. Then again, Alphinaud is also basically her little brother and bosses her around all the time. For a moment, Kohanya has to seriously consider the quality of her life choices as she and Atara start the brief hike to the requested patrol spots. She is at least doing her utmost to keep her promise and think about and question what she's told now, but while this is silly, there is a logic to it. People are traveling in unusual numbers and that is likely to excite the hungrier wildlife, isn't it?

It is not like killing a few stray wolves takes long, either, especially not with Atara leading the fray and swinging around her massive broadsword hard enough to send bodies flying. Well within a bell, the assigned task is done, and they head back towards the fort, Ta grumbling, Anya mostly finding herself caught up in optimistic anticipation. If this goes well, it will mean _so much_ , both to Ishgard as a whole and to Aymeric personally, and there's an irrepressible candle flame of joy that burns in her soul at the idea that her new home may well be coming to true change and safety.

Perhaps it gutters a _tiny_ bit in frustration when as soon as she gets back, Emmannelain blithely informs her that Thancred was looking for them and he sends them back out to find them. Particularly given that it literally takes no more time than is necessary to haul themselves to where he is, greet him, and the three of them to return. So yes, even she might give Emmannelain something of a frustrated look on their return, the cold of the snow having sunk down into her bones. At least he chooses to pass on that there's hot food to be found. 

Even better, they seem to be recognized by the server, who ushers her and Atara to a quieter table near the back and even fetches them mugs of warm mulled wine, on the house. Ta glowers at hers for a moment, but given the chill outside, Anya is more than happy to pick her own up and drink deeply, watching in amusement as her friend is lured to follow all too quickly as the warmth brings pink to her own cheeks. The woman continues to chatter good naturedly, and the mention of a departed husband draws one of her ears to perk more upright, the scholar briefly looking towards their hostess, who has turned away. 

For a moment, she thinks it is merely the oddity of that statement that draws lassitude over her like a heavy cloak. It is not. Something more weighs down, tugging at her limbs and her very thoughts as if an anchor dropped into the ocean. Dimly, she can see Ta's form swaying in the other seat, as if drunk on mere sips, and that calm voice continues as the server turns around again. The realization that she's been drugged — or poisoned — and it's too late to do anything, that she left Eos unsummoned so as to avoid worsening the chaos, bursts to the surface like a bubble in the seconds before she slips under and awareness is lost in the dark rush of silence.

\-----

The humiliation of Thancred finding them passed out tucked into a corner of an empty room needs not be spoken on. Kohanya would be offended that he is not sympathetic but she's too busy being angry at her own self. When he leads the dash back out into the courtyard, she immediately sees a few scattered forms on the ground, injured or dead she does not yet know, and fumbling hands still weak from the drug reach for her grimoire. She has it half open when Atara grabs her arm and all but drags her into looking up.

Oh. The cheerful barmaid. Well. Falsely cheerful, obviously, and she curses herself internally once more for _trusting_ , for not questioning more, for — for — for a thousand tiny things, and oh, it hurts too, to hear the speech she makes. As much as it has become her home, this isn't her _homeland_ and she knows she hasn't suffered these things that the Coerthans and Ishgardians have, but with so much of her heart invested in wanting to _end_ this war, after their loses and their lessons, to be reminded how many will never be able to do so? It weighs on her as much as the drug could have, sucks all the oxygen away from that light of hope she carries within, leaves her to struggle to shield and feed the tiny spark that remains.

She's so focused on her own feelings that she misses what Emmannelain says besides them, at least until the moment when Ta, too slow, throws herself towards him, biting off a curse as she fails to stop the bowman at his side from raising and shooting on his orders. 

It is far from a fatal wound, but it may be fatal to their goals for that day. Even a fool — and this woman has not been one of those, for all she is treacherous and sick at heart — could spin being pierced by an arrow for speaking out into a call for sympathy. No warmth is left in her body as she watches a second arrow fly, burying itself into the protestor's belly. Her book is open and Eos at her side as she takes off running, leaving her ill-suited companion to deal with the people and the chaos there. The very _least_ left that she can do is assure that the woman survives their miserable excuse for diplomacy. 

It is not hard to find the chirurgeons and after a flurry of work in spell and hand, she knows for sure that at least those there for genuine purposes survived this day, although every injury was unnecessary to her mind. The — she struggles to put a word to it — heretic? Rebel? Angry citizen? Refuses to speak or acknowledge her as she pulls the arrows free and staunches each wound, first with healing magic, then the chirurgeon's salves and bandages applied with gentle hands, just to be sure. For a second, she lingers, letting quiet words slip from her lips as she stands, fall like snowflakes before she turns. "I am sorry for who you lost. Who we all lost." It is not enough. It is nothing. But she cannot hate her.

\-----

Finding the other two Scions present in the tavern afterwards, Kohanya listens dully as Lucia and Artoirel fill them in on the rest. More than a few of the conspirators died apparently, either in resisting attempts to quell them or by their own choice rather than surrender. If they were not still in the middle of it, she might give in to her wish to cry in regret at the sheer _waste_ of it, but there is no time. Never, it seems, is there really time for mourning.

Ta and Thancred are all too quick to confirm the blows that the morale of the community has suffered in this as well. Even Lucia allows herself to be downcast at her own perceived mistakes and errors. Of them all, it is Artoirel who manages to hold fast to the threads of optimism, to remind them that what was done before can be done again if they must. Then he insists on sending her and Emmannelain to inform Aymeric which is probably not _meant_ as a punishment, at least in her own case, but very much feels like one. Yet another opportunity to explain to the man who has absolute unwarranted faith in her how, once again, she has utterly failed to do what she should have done to live up to her vaunted title.

Emmannelain calls for Honoroit to accompany them and that is when they finally, horrifyingly, realize that the young manservant is missing. When they find him near where the chocobos land, it is clear the boy has been beaten. Her ribs clench in violent protest at the notion that such frustration was taken out a mere _boy_ , an innocent, over something so minor as asking people not to leave. For all Emmannelain's foibles, there is no question to her in that moment to his own genuine care for the child he has taken under his wing (and all too often, vice versa), anguish enough showing to carve grooves even on his young face. The words of hope from Honoroit before he slips exhausted and unconscious both buoy and cut, and there is the icy prickle of forming tears at the corners of her own eyes.

Emmannelain all but explodes in frustration and for a split-second, she thinks Ta is going to deck him before Thancred stops her. Only to manage to incite the young nobleman to punch _him_ instead and to throw a punch in return. More than throw a punch; Thancred leaves the boy flat on his back and she is attempting to squeak in protest even as Ta looks like she's seriously considering giving him a pat for a job well done. Lovely. They are all miserable and Thancred stalks off to no doubt stew in it. 

After it all, it is to her alone to return to Ishgard and explain the monumentality of their failure, once again, and the reality of it makes her feel sicker than being drugged ever did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever:  
> Please gib comment serotonin.  
> Please have a lovely day. ♥


	26. To Stand Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought we'd get to the whole Grand Melee, but I forgot how much Emm and Anya actaully have in common in some ways and got happily dragged into the meat of discussion.

Nymeia is not kind; when Kohanya returns to the Congregation to explain what happened, it is to both Edmont and Aymeric. At least she has some support, in the form of Thancred and Atara. Well. Maybe Atara. She's pretty sure Thancred might still be quietly seething over poor Emmanellain's mistakes and self-pity. So, eyes downcast, the scholar explains their mistakes and misfortune to her beloved and the only father she has ever known. That they are understanding and reasonable about it, question themselves and their culture, their history, as much as anything else. No one is perfect, as she knows quite well, but these two men? They are, to her view, unquestionably _good people_ , trying to do their best for a country that so long belonged to those willing to make the darkest of compromises.

The proposition of a Grand Melee, though… Yes, she can see the merits in it, to let the people be proud of their ability to fight, and against a 'safe' enemy. Hopefully Aymeric is well enough healed by now, because she knows too damn well that he's certainly not going to decline to participate just because someone tried to assassinate him not all that long ago. Foolish, stubborn, _prideful_ knight. (She tacitly ignores that these things are all part of what she loves about him, because in this moment, she is fretting for him.)

When they step out to update Lucia, Thancred pulls her aside, to ask pointed questions. (She knows, too, why he asks _her_ and not Ta.) "And what part would they have _you_ play in this affair, I wonder? You, whom they have taken into their confidence, upon whom they have come so _heavily_ to rely. And will you oblige them, when the proposition is made? Will you stand for Ishgard once more?"

For a moment, she goes still. However fleeting, yes, the instinct is briefly there, to oblige him, to do what the Scions want of her, even imply wanting of her, without question. But she has made promises, and for a second, a rough voice murmurs against her ear in her memory. Spine straightening, Anya tilts her head up to catch Thancred's gaze with her own. If she dares to look, her own opinion is quite clear. "Of course I will. This is my _home_ now, Thancred. I am not ashamed of that. When no one else would, Fortemps and Ishgard stood up for me and Ta. I am what I am, I will do what needs to be done as what I am, but I will _not_ let my nature take away my ability to have my own life or feelings."

Thancred blinks (she assumes, with the one eye hidden) at her. Then, to her surprise, he lays a hand briefly on her shoulder, and she thinks this might be the first time he's treated her like she's someone he _respects_ , rather than another thread in the vast tapestry of the Scions' plans. "Well then. You better let Atara know she cannot fight for them too, that would be truly unfair."

He quickly — maybe even a bit _cheerfully_! — departs to update Hilda, while she turns back towards the main work area to do the same for Lucia. At the second-in-command's request, Ta heads off to deliver her preferences to Hilda, and Anya goes to find and speak to poor Emmanellain.

\-----

It is no surprise she finds him in the Crozier; much as she secretly loves to watch everyone and imagine what currents pull them through the city, he too, seems to find solace in watching everyone else move through their lives. (And highly likely in ogling the women too, but Emmanellain is still young, it is a forgivable flaw, at least to her.) His face in the waning sunset light is not his usual indolent pleasure but guarded and lost. A scolded child, or perhaps, a man in crisis. She prays for the latter. He has become her brother and despite his youth and flaws, she wants, dearly, to see him able to reach the potential she knows he has.

Emm's dark hair feathers against the stone wall where he leans by the marketboard and she catches his look away as she approaches. Smiling wryly, Kohanya listens to the soft patter of her feet on the cobblestones until she can move to stand in the same pose, a fulm or two away, the chill of the stone soaking through her robes almost instantly. Glancing through his hair, still trying to hide, her adoptive brother mutters, "...I carried Honoroit to the manor. Our best chirugeons are tending to him as we speak. He has yet to wake, but surely… surely he will."

Her voice is soft, gentle, and Kohanya idly traces patterns of the harsh rock as she speaks. "My title may be the 'Warrior of Light', but I think you'd remember by now my real skill is healing. Do you truly think after you and Thancred had your little argument, that I did not check on him, make sure he was stable enough that he did not need my aid? I promise you, Honoroit may bear memories or scars, but there is absolutely no reason for him not to wake up once his body is recovered from the effort of healing. It's easy to forget that, that healing takes energy and work too, you know."

She catches his look of surprise and smiles, reaching across to briefly squeeze his lower arm. For an instant, his throat bobs, clearly suppressing some emotion, then he asks hesitantly, "So Father has volunteered me for this 'grand melee' of theirs?" The words are followed, all but immediately, with a dramatic sigh that makes her want to smile, although she manages to contain it. "My beloved family. Always making my decisions for me."

She senses the traps underfoot if she answers wrong here, and it's all the harder when her own experiences with family have been less than exemplary. "He loves you, but he is used to you not _wanting_ to take responsibility, Emm, not really. Can you blame him?" Teeth briefly dent her lower lip as she bites it, feeling the slight sharpness of her fangs.

"No, it's not like that! It's just… Oh, you wouldn't understand. How could you? You are free to be the woman you want to be, whereas I… I...I am a son of House Fortemps, don't you see? My future was determined before I was born. What I could and could not do." He's looking away again, avoiding her, and she's not sure if it's anger or guilt.

Still treading her words carefully, she shifts, leaning her head back, looking up towards the upper levels. "You're right. And you're wrong. Before I was born, my family knew what I would be — an embarrassment. A mistake. And that is what I grew up thinking, that I could never matter. But I was also apparently born as what I have become, able to hear Hydaelyn's voice. Able to see things about people and the past, even that they do not want me to, like a thief. So no, I do not know what it is like for my family to expect things of me… but I know a lot of what it is like for there to _be_ expectations. It is hard, you know. Struggling with it, struggling with your world changing… that does not make you a bad person, Emm. It makes you normal."

There is genuine surprise in his expression again, and it only increases her sororal affection. Bless his heart, for someone who spends so much time watching women, Emmanellain has no idea how anyone else's mind works. He considers her more seriously, eyes the same blue as Haurchefant's once were sweeping her face. "All around me, brave men and women rise to the occasion. With faith and conviction they dedicate themselves to their causes. But not I. I was terrified of making the wrong choice, which is why I let better men make them for me. Do this, do that, take this duty, guard this conference — I suppose I had convinced myself I was above it… until your friend showed me otherwise. When I saw Honoroit, I wanted to scream. I wanted someone to blame! But, in the end, there was only me. Only me. So you see, I cannot meekly bow my head and accept Father's command. Such cowardice is what brought me to this point."

She cannot help it — the laugh busts out of her like a bubble popping, a merry rush of air from lungs. "Oh, sweet spinner! Emm, do you have any idea how much like me you sound?" He is openly staring now; she has clearly said damn near the _last_ thing he ever expected. "Until I came to Ishgard, until the attempted assassination of the Sultana, all I ever did was do what those I thought knew better asked of me. I might still be doing it, if…" The thought chokes her off, and she corrects herself, some things still too raw to discuss with family. "If someone had not made me stop and think about what I was doing, to encourage me to start to make steps of my own, however hesitant they might be. It is not too late for you to do the same. It never will be. If you want to shape your own path… then start doing it. I have faith in you."

He straightens, moves away from the wall, and she can see the conviction as his shoulders straighten, his chin lifts, stubborn even in fear. Despite the strictures of Ishgard she stretches onto her toes and wraps her arms around his shoulders in the briefest of hugs, not wanting to be inappropriate, but needing to fully show her support. In that infinitesimal second, he grips back, and she knows it was needed. There is a slight brassy thread of nerves in his voice, but determination is the true fabric as Emmanellain agrees, "I will go to Ser Aymeric, and I will make my own decision."

Settling back onto her feet flatly, she smiles, her heart surprisingly lightened. "Whatever it is, I trust it to be the right one."

\-----

Together, they walk down the sweeping ramps and along the cobbled roads, the shadows deepening into darkness as the sun slips down below the height of the ramparts. As they reach the Congregation, runners are lighting the streetlamps, and the chill in the air is already increasing, making the fire-heated headquarters a pleasant stop. Rubbing her hands to warm them, they speak to the guards and, once again, she is ushered through into Aymeric's office.

Edmont is still there, and she greets him with a slight smile, hoping it is a reassurance. Emmanellain steps in front of her, already certain of whatever path he has chosen, and she finds that she's holding her breath as she listens to him. "Lord Commander, if I may, I wished to speak with you before the grand melee." A slight pause as he is acknowledged, and she twines her hands together, begging Nymeia's mercy that he is truly going to find the right path for him. "How do you do it, my lord? How do you lead with such certainty when so many of our countrymen will not hear of peace with the Dravinians? Some of them hate you almost as much as the dragons themselves. They decry you as a patricide in the streets. They even tried to kill you, for gods' sakes! Yet still you march on undaunted, where no archbishop dared to tread. What is your secret? Where do you find the strength?"

She knows so many of these answers, in the marrow of her. She knows too, that she would not say them, not even for her brother, that Aymeric is never so sure as he seems, but he is, more than anything, willing to accept risk and suffering for what is _right_. He is a man unlike almost any other she has known. Thinking on it pulls her gaze from Emm to Aymeric, the thoughtful expression, the patience and kindness in those pale blue eyes. He should be watching the youngest Fortemps, and he is, but for a moment, it is on her that the Lord Commander's attention falls, and Anya is helpless to feel anything but pure warmth in that split-second of communion between them.

Hands folding carefully on his desk, so perfectly controlled to the outward gaze, Aymeric answers the question levelly. The words do not matter, in the end; it is his sentiment, his faith, and she can see the way it spreads out from him to everyone else in the room, even her. It is so much _easier_ to be brave and to have hope, in Aymeric's presence, with the way his soul shines through him. She sees it affecting Emmanellain too, and now? Now Anya is certain his choice will, as she promised him, be one she is proud of.

"I want to believe… I do…" He does. And he makes the choice to do what Edmont wanted; not to please his family, not to uphold their name, but because in the end, Emmanellain wants to do what is right too. Wants to try and stand with everyone else. She is not actually sure she's ever had the chance to be so damned _proud_ of someone.

  
Aymeric gladly accepts his participation and, just as Thancred predicted, follows up by asking for hers. They all look to her hopefully and she steals a brief second for a guilty glance towards the rogue, but sure enough, she spoke true earlier. This is her home. Her beloved. Her father. Her brother. She has no intent of doing _anything_ but fighting at their side. (And if by chance, she gets an excuse to heal Aymeric mid battle and hurry along the fading remnants of the gut wound from the assassin's blade, well, that would just be a little bonus.) "Of course, I will. Come the morning, I will be there. Before then, though, I better warn Ta because we might need to balance the odds. Just a little."


	27. Hand on Hilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it has been a bit, this one had some production difficulties and it's a tiny bit possible that I am overworking myself every so very slightly. But it is done and as ever, I will try and be faster, because I am nothing if not self-demanding.
> 
> Oh yeah, this one has, you know, NSFW, smut, the sex, banging. Also some minor violence. Er. Not in conjunction.

As Kohanya had expected, when she confesses to Atara that she's agreed to fight for Ishgard in the melee, the other woman's eyes spark with amusement, but she takes the counter position, suggesting that she will serve with Flames, as they are the grand company she has long worked with. "Besides," the au ra half-growls, "It will remind them what they owe me, and that they could still be doing more to track down Yda, and Papalymo." Knowing that the missing Scions, particularly her girlfriend, are a rather touchy issue for Ta, Anya can only nod, granting her silent agreement.

\-----

The morning comes clear and crisp, enough to actually make the eternal winter seem cheered and welcoming for once. An irony, perhaps, for a day to be spent on the field of mock battle. Kohanya starts with a base layer of healer's robes, a simpler set than she usually favors, then starts to pull on the House Fortemps mail she was provided with last night and asked to wear. She had assumed that chain would feel heavy and awkward. Strangely, it had proved otherwise; while the exact fit was not familiar, something about the weight of it, the way it draped her frame felt naggingly, disconcertingly _familiar_.

Which would make no sense at all. She wore cloth and leather as a youth, robes and bilauds as a weaver of magics of all sorts. Nothing in her knowledge of herself contains a time where she wore true armor. Frowning minutely, the miqo'te scholar finishes with pulling the gloves on, flexing her fingers, then shaking her head and peeling them immediately off again. Too stiff, for flipping pages and drawing sigils; she will have to rely on her usual cloth there. After she sets them down, she reaches up, swooping the bulk of her hair up into a twist that she pins tightly in places, the movement practiced and entirely on muscle memory.

It's a simple hairstyle, one almost every student developed a variant of, to keep hair from eyes while still looking presentable. The part she does not understand is that she knows she chose it from a memory of the risks of loose, flowing hair when in chain. With a shake of her head, to settle the strands that still fall loose around her face, Kohanya picks up her tome and goes to meet the rest of the household for mock war.

\-----

Ducking under the swing of an axe, Kohanya stretches out one hand to toss another shield around Emmanellain. She's doing her best not to do so too often, for the sake of his ego, but she's not been able to resist some attempts to protect all of those known to her. Ta has cornered Artoirel and the two are engaged in a duel that she suspects is more show than substance, at least until Lucia decides to take the chance to try out sparring with a warrior of light when she can and slams into her, drawing her attention into a protracted tumble.

For a while, she loses herself in the flow of battle, if such as even the word, more like raging rapids around deadly stones. Shields and healing spun and shared, curses summoned to shred and sap at the strength of their foes, watching ever for those glowing lines that mark the current primary target.

A flash of movement and long red-pink dreads and she spins, knowing who that means, and knowing that she had best keep her eyes open when her friend is in motion. Sure enough, Ta’s expression is focused as she closes in on Aymeric, her exact intent uncertain but unlikely to end pleasantly for Ishgard’s side. Boots slapping on snow and stone she spins, running towards the two, not bothering to call a warning but going straight for the shining allure of her aether, spinning it out into a protective shell and linking in a pocket of healing energy as she throws the spell around the Lord Commander.

Aymeric is more than wise enough at manners of war to read it as a warning of an attack incoming and he smoothly sweeps Naegling up to catch Atara’s own heavy blade with a massive metallic clang. A low rumble reverberates in the air and, distantly, Kohanya has the realization that the sound is a growl, rising from her own throat. Twisting the pathways of her aether, reaching beyond those bolstered by Eos’s presence, she throws a burst of wind ahead of her, knocking the dark knight back.

She doesn’t stop her motion either, keeps going until her form slams into that of the other warrior of light in direct contact, bruising with the impact. A sudden ringing in her ears and a feeling like levin brushing her spine; the tether! A moment later, the other snaps into place at Atara’s back as they tumble, the surprise at her tactic enough to almost knock the dark knight off her feet. In the corner of her gaze, she can see Aymeric turning, moving to fight at her side, face set in grim determination.

Ta must see it too, because she gestures and a massive, flickering dome of red and black power surrounds them, the tainted aether of the dark knight shoving everyone else back and away. There are several harsh slamming sounds as Ishgard’s commander hammers at the barrier with his sword, to no effect. Stumbling back a few steps, the scholar clutches her tome tightly, gaze narrowing as she eyes the xaela and her gleefully toothy smile. The outcome should be predictable; Atara has height and weight on her, the trained body of a warrior who endures the worst Erse can bring to bear, not to mention an absolutely massive blade. She has… a book.

And determination.

Atara swings, she darts, and the fight becomes a game of cat and mouse as the other woman chases her in circles around their impromptu arena. Kohanya’s fingers twist as she weaves curses and magic, aiming for spots where she knows the xaela is weaker. She takes several bruising blows that may well have cut her if not for the mail, but it does its duty and so does Eos, waves of soothing aether softening the wounds as she keeps retreating and avoiding.

She can try and outwait her friend, but it’s a risky proposition; sooner or later, one of those swings of the towering sword is going to knock her down hard enough she won’t get up again easily. Whispering a brief prayer to both Nymeia and Halone for forgiveness, she spins aether down to a tight jolt of lightning, rolling back to get the distance she needs to clearly sight her target and throws it forth, aimed directly for the scarred and knotted tissues in the middle of the xaela’s grip, where she repaired her hand what seems like so long ago.

Triumph and guilt twist in an uneasy mix when Atara bites off a curse as her hand spasms, the scarred flesh refusing to clasp properly long enough that she drops her blade. Throwing herself in a rush, aether speeding her, Anya then slams herself forward, tackling the dark knight with arms wrapped around her knees and knocking her to the ground, away from the blade. A mad scramble of limbs and sparking and biting curses before she drives her knee down on the same injured hand, pinning the xaela by the barest margin.

Panting wildly, her hair staring to tumble out of its twist and into her eyes, she lifts one hand over Ta’s face, letting the sickly greens of a curse twine between her fingers as she gasps out, “Yield?”

To her surprise, then relief, Ta laughs. “I yield, I yield. Sorry. I had to see what you’d do.” Her voice is soft, enough that the last words almost get lost amongst cheers and claps from outside the dome and they both look up, startled. The barrier flickers, then drops, and the way Aymeric is _beaming_ tells her all she needs to know.

They have done it; Ishgard carries the field. Dizzy with emotion and relief, Anya staggers to her feet, helping her friend up as well, then, laughing, she goes to join the celebration.

\-----

They return to the city in high spirits; higher even when it turns out that Honoroit has awakened, happy and healthy. Although she would like to talk to Emmanellain about the day, it can wait til later. She would much rather he take the opportunity to reconnect with his charge.

That Aymeric is so eager to return to the notion of a peace conference is a matter of some small concern, although very little surprise. He is grim and determined, nails digging into any small chance to move things forward. If nothing else, she will always admire that determination and hopefulness. When the group scatters, despite still bearing their borrowed armor, she trails in his wake, rather than the Fortemps.

A decision not at all hurt by the fact that as they cut their way towards the spiraling ramps, he looks to her and she catches _hunger_ in the gleam of the lamplight in his gaze.

Adrenaline and combat is a dangerous combination.

They are barely in the manor and the door shut when she finds herself pinned to the wall, a hand on either side of her shoulders as Aymeric leans down to capture her mouth with his. When he lifts back slightly, it is to murmur a soft apology against her lips, if an entirely unneeded one. “You are magnificent when you fight, you know.”

She blinks at him, breathless, then tangles hands in his hair, tugging him in to kiss again, even as his fingers find the edge of her mail, pulling and tugging. He breaks the kiss again, voice with a softly husky edge as he does so. “Charming in armor, but I think I would prefer… just a little less of it. A bath?”

More than a bath, she imagines, but it marks a starting point and she smiles, tugging at that hair one more time before letting him go. “A bath sounds lovely. And warm.” The warm might be _why_ it sounds lovely, at that. Aymeric straightens and slips a hand into hers, a boyish, gleeful grin on his face and the pair of them head for the steps and the lord’s private bath.

Quickly, mail is removed and put away and underlayers shed into the hamper, the bath is run and enhanced by the addition of a herb laced salt meant for sore muscles and bruises. Not traditionally an arousing smell, but as they both climb in, Aymeric cages her in against the side, pressed to her back. The length of his body is warm and strong, and she leans back into him, feeling the distinctive intense heat of _him_ against her back as well, rapidly hardening further as the knight’s hands trace admiring patterns over her skin. Callused skin smooths over her hips, along the lines of her waist, then cup over the heavy weight of her breasts, using his grip on them to pull her in closer.

Lips like an angel’s brush over her neck, then her shoulders, up her neck again, and Anya turns her head, guides him to meet her mouth. He takes the invitation, warm and possessive, slow drags of his thumbs working her nipples into hard pebbles. Luxuriating in the touch and the steam from the water, thee scholar suspects she’s going to respond to this smell with very distinct memories in the future. Aymeric plunders her mouth, drinking her in and offering himself in turn, rocking slowly from time to time for the sweet feel of friction when his shaft rubs against her.

A hand drops: strong fingers dip between her thighs, press up to her curls, parting them. One digit slips deeper, running a slow, teasing trail along her inner folds, helping coax her open to his touch more, soon finding the spot where they meet. More sweet, coaxing touches; Aymeric takes his time, slow and steady, just barely enough pressure in this teasing, until she’s squirming desperately in his grip, the hand still at her chest now pressed flat to her sternum to help keep her held to the knight’s taller body as she moans and pants.

She is not sure how much time passes before Aymeric lightly nips the edge of her ear, his dark velvet voice just breathless enough to show his own need is very much a part of the equation. “Do you feel ready for me, dear heart?” She is more than a little quick to make a sound of agreement, arcing back to grind her bottom up and against him in further encouragement, soft flesh against firmer. The knight groans and he presses her to lean over the tall edge of the tub and brace herself, nudging her feet further apart to give him even better access.

Curling himself over her back, Aymeric aligns himself, pressing kisses to her shoulders as he starts to slide within, the broad, rounded tip of him straining at her inner walls as his cock glides deeper. It _is_ something of a strain, in this position and angle, emphasizing the size of him all the more, but in the wake of adrenaline and exertion, the burn of it is an appeal rather than a discouragement. Beyond that, he is careful and slow enough, waiting til his hips are flush with her bottom. For the moment, they both still, conjoined and aligned, slick with sweat and steam, a pearl clutched within a golden setting. The sensations calm a little, enough to let her drink in the feeling of _home_ , of being held and treasured, then as slowly and deliberately as his fingers were earlier, Aymeric starts to roll and snap his hips.

A rhythm is found, grows rapider, settles, and her back draws into a bow, one hand twisting behind to clutch at her lover as best she can, the other braced on the tub’s side for support. More touches of lips to whatever they can reach, neck, shoulders, cheeks, brushed against her own, a litany of soft gasps and groans, the occasional interjection of words of praise for bravery, for skill, for dedication, each of them calling out the other. The glide of the knight’s shaft within brushes steadily over the spot that sends tightening waves of shuddering pleasure for her, fingers clawing as she can feel herself tightening down around him, the tight squeeze and the corresponding pressure back.

Almost delicate, Aymeric finds the spot where Anya’s neck meets her shoulder, biting down from behind, firm enough to add a brilliant spark of _just enough_ pain, raising red marks on her skin, like salt sprinkled on a meal, adding to the richness of ecstasy. An increase in speed, growing feral as the need for completion sings through both of them like a rising aria, until finally, with a hard drive of hips, rocking her forward and sloshing water over the edge of the tub, and he cries out roughly as he peaks, a wash of heat and slickness. A second later, a broad finger finds her clit and circles it insistently, all but wringing forth her own climax in a ragged wail.

She rides it out until panting and weary, then in an uncoordinated and somewhat flooding collapse, they both sink directly down into the water, Aymeric sliding out of her but hands still holding her close, cradled in his lap. He leans back against the other side of the tub and she leans against him, half-turning to rest her cheek on his chest. A minute or perhaps three, spent in contented afterglow, then slowly, they start to shift, finally move on to the matter of cleaning themselves. (And later, mopping dry the bathroom floor.)

By the time they tangle into bed together, a knot of clasped hands and lazy, sleep-dazed kisses, bodies worn from skirmish and sex, Anya allows herself a small moment of hope for their next attempt at a peace conference come morning. In the end, this worked out well, and perhaps, with Nymeia’s mercy, tomorrow will as well. She can only hold onto that prayer as she slips into sleep, half-wound in the sheets, Aymeric’s lips pressed down against the top of her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to bug me? My various social media (including my tumblr and the rough versions of my FFXIVWrites, almost all related to this fic) can be found via https://nightmist.carrd.co


	28. Cracked and Worn

Chill air, the scent of forthcoming snow on the wind, the promise of future flakes that belies the crystalline clear blue of the sky. Kohanya lifts one hand, checking the pins holding her hat firmly in place are still seated, then drops it, crossing arms over her chest, clutching her coat closer around herself. She, Alphinaud, and Ta have made their way to a spot where even those height challenged compared to the full grown elezen and hyur surrounding them can keep an eye on the platform.

Aymeric and Lucia are resplendent in the cool light of the morning sun, casting a white sheen on armor silvered or golden in truth. She may be a little biased, but even if Lucia is always striking, for the moment, the light washes her out a little while making him seem an idol of gold and obsidian and lapis lazuli. (Oh, Nymeia bless her, she remains a fool for him always.)

Vidofnir is striking in her own way, scales that shine like the packed snow and powerful muscles, and Aymeric’s words are as well-wrought as one might expect, playing on the emotional threads of the crowd as elegantly as those fingers would be able to pluck a harp string. He is sure and stirring, the force of his optimism and determination ringing in the air like a pure-toned note. He meets Vidofnir’s gentle challenge just the same, and for a few moments when the mural is unveiled, the air seems to warm just a few degrees with the power of the crowd’s hope.

The harsh voiced call of “Never!” and the scent of smoke and blood reach her at the same time, and Anya looks up.

There is no need for time, to recognize the lean, striking form in drachen mail, Gae Bolg clutched tight in hand, no matter the sneer on the face that is cruel in a way unlike his own. _Estinien._

Something cracks deep in the basin of her soul, leaving her essence bleeding forth, the agony spearing through her as she reaches for a trace of familiar aether in that familiar body, a glimpse of navy and silver, the ghost taste-smell of cloves numbing her tongue. For a split-second, it seems the scholar summons it in her mind, then it fades again, into blood and ashes in her mouth, vermilion and a sickly night sky.

Anya makes no real effort to process the words said, taunts from an ancient wyrm do not need her to hear them. Already shocked and shaking, she starts to weave through the forms of taller elezen and hyur, to get closer to the steps up to the platform. No more than four or five steps and she is paralyzed, numb with horror as Vidofnir is speared at the end of one of those impossible dragoon jumps and Aymeric take a bow from one of the men and —

as swift and sure as she has ever seen —

he looses an arrow straight for the heart of the dragon wearing Estinien’s form.

She wants to scream, to howl, to keen terror to the heavens, but it is as if her mouth and throat are packed with cotton in the instants where Nidhogg lifts his hand ( _Estinien_ _’s, it’s Estinien’s hand, it’s not his_ ) and destroys the arrow in a flash of sickly aether before it comes close to him. Too slowly, the horror holding her hostage abates, frees her as Nidhogg snarls taunts and warnings and she stumbles for the stairs, for Aymeric’s side.

Scrambling up the steps, she skids to a halt just behind Aymeric, watching as Estinien — Nidhogg, that is Nidhogg, she _must_ remember — leaps back away, calling more threats and dire pronouncements. Trembling, after a brief pause, she shoves past, calling for Eos as she presses hands to the weakly shuddering scaled side before her. Tears flood her eyes even as aether rises to her call and she and Eos do their best to theorize on the fly, modifying incantations and inscriptions sketched in the air to try and suit a draconic body, to stabilize and heal as much as possible.

The sickening press of Nidhogg’s aether becomes overwhelming and she looks up again, lips drawing into a thin, tight line as bile rises in her belly from having to watch the horrendous transformation once more, ‘til a dragon flaps where a man once stood. For all her queasiness, she tracks the patterns in the air, bloody gaze intent to every snatch of natural magic she can see of the transformation, the way the aether condenses around the melded eyes, then burns back out through them. The crowd begins to chant for death and closing her eyes, she hides her face against Vidofnir’s hide as she continues to weave healing and tries to muffle her own quiet sobbing.

\-----

Keeping Vidofnir stable and in as little pain as possible until other dragons can arrive to assist her in traveling back to Anyx Trine to recover takes long enough that by the point Kohanya is finally free, her robes now well splotched and soaked in draconic blood, she cannot find Aymeric or Atara anywhere. Logic dictates that the most likely reason is that he was forced to return to Ishgard for the sake of safety. Finding Alphinaud, he confirms her assumptions, along with the departure of the guests on the whole.

After a brief commiseration over the highly unfortunate outcome of the day — Anya beings to think that she is going to start getting hives at the words ‘peace conference’ — Alphinaud makes commentary on Aymeric’s lack of hesitation at attacking. It is something she has been doing her best not to let her mind linger on, because the memory of it leaves her chilled and trembling, a vertiginous mix of sorrow and regret and anger that draws the world into queasy surreality. The action seems both understandable and impossible all at once, and she must keep reminding herself that, in fairness, she ought to give him a chance to explain before losing her temper.

Alphinaud’s request that she, specifically, return to Dragonhead with him for a private discussion is a welcomed distraction. Given his fondness of Estinien as a brother figure, not to mention her own romantic attachment, she can easily imagine what it is over. While she makes one last check for her fellow Warrior before she departs, in truth, she has to admit she doesn’t expect Atara to have the same sort of response that she does. (Quite honestly, she is grateful enough the other woman did not consider it necessary to try and scale the tower to take on the dragon personally to protect the crowd. The idea is less impossible than she cares to admit.)

Not too terribly long after, she slips away, finding Alphinaud waiting her in their brief “Rising Snows”, with cocoa no less. After the shock of the morning, the reminder is too much and before she knows what is happening, she’s sniffling again. Biting off a curse, the scholar rummages through her pockets, only to be interrupted by Alphinaud clearing his throat and graciously handing her a handkerchief.

It takes a few minutes and sinking into a chair to recover herself, finally lifting eyes both blood-hued and blood-shot to her companion. “My apologies. Today has been — Everything has been a lot.” As she half-expects, Alphinaud politely makes light of it, pressing the cocoa back into her hands. He is not wrong, either; a few sips do help put her back in order for a little while.

In short, clear words, honest and sure, Alphinaud lays out the decisions he has made, his dedication to attempting to save Estinien, no matter what. A wave of relief so strong it is almost grief sweeps through her and Anya reaches out with one hand, grabbing hold of his in return. She is sure he knows her matching dedication even without words, her memories and her determination.

She gives him the words anyway. “I am with you, in every way. Even did I not love him, I would be with you in saving him. This is not right.”

\-----

After her conversation with Alphinaud and his conviction to save her possessed beloved, it only itches under Kohanya’s skin all the more that the man who loves Estinien as much as she does, if not more, was so willing to aim and shoot to kill. Anya is not unrealistic; she knows Aymeric is a pragmatic man, and one who has lived all his life steeped in the ideals of eternal war.

Aymeric is also a man who loves with more desperate intensity then she would have expected at first meeting, so much always seething beneath the disarming calm of his exterior. A geode, smooth and bland without, but within, beyond dazzling in light and beauty. That man? It is hard for her to imagine that man ordering, much less carrying out, a deadly attack on someone whose value they have always placed beyond their own.

And so; some part of her is not surprised when on achieving her return to the manor and stalking within, she finds Aymeric in his office, stripped of armor but still in the base layers worn beneath, on the couch with his arms wrapped tight around the pillow he has been using to catch his tears. The start of the righteous anger she has been building up to confront him disappears between one breath and the next. “Oh, my shield heart…”

Anya sinks down onto her knees, reaching up to stroke tears away from the knight’s cheeks. Biting down on her lip for a moment, she asks in a subdued whisper, “This morning?”

A sight hiccup and a nod, her hand patting his knee reassuringly as she waits for him to find words. And perhaps, hopefully, to show he is hurting for the reasons that make the most sense to her. Sure enough — “I promised him, you know. Years ago; it is a common fear for them to put in trainees and knights, that if you are captured by heretics, you will be force fed dragon’s blood and changed into one of them. I doubt very much that Estinien and I were the only close friends to swear to one another to never leave one to be controlled by the enemy.” Realization begins to settle on her like the ever-covering snow building on the embankments outside.

"No matter what I promised him, I truly do not know if I could have done it, if I believed my shot had any hope against _Nidhogg_ but distraction. Had it hit, I would have…" Aymeric's voice trails off as if it were water draining away, all the animating force and hope leaving in a flooding rush. A moment later, he buries his face back in the pillow he clutches, the whisper that follows frail and easy to miss if she had not been so close. “Anya… what if I had…”

A cracked and broken twin to his heart, the scholar reaches and gently pries the pillow from her knight’s hands, climbing up onto the couch to insert herself in its place, aware of the stiffness of dragon’s blood dried in her robes as she wraps arms around Aymeric’s shoulders. Kohanya lets him bury his head in the curve of her neck and the fall of her hair, until his weeping has once more run the course, grief and fear and the deepest cut of fearing the loss of something deeply beloved.

Exhausted and weakened by emotion, the Lord Speaker leans into her, and she runs gentle, sad fingers through waves of rook’s plumage black and presses a kiss to his forehead. “The rest can wait ‘til morning, my love. You need time.” Leaning back a little, she catches Aymeric’s eyes, falling into the midsummer sky at dawn. “I need to change and wash; let me talk to the kitchen and I’ll have them send us something to your room. We can talk and…”

Carefully sliding back from his lap to stand, she offers her hands. “I know I keep saying it and ‘tis all but impossible to believe, but I refuse to see Estinien as past saving. I _will_ find a way, Aymeric. I will.” His eyes are hollowed and haunted as he takes her hands, fingers squeezed tight in his broad ones before he rises.

“I hope you might, ere I face such a choice again. I fear for Ishgard’s sake, I may never be allowed to stay my hand, no matter my heart’s wish.”

The words bury a trembling white-hot needle of pain in her, but she understands and respects it all the same. Pulling his hands close a moment longer, she murmurs softly, “Have faith in our love.” With a weak smile as she lets go, she slips towards the kitchen and he upstairs, to shortly meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to bug me? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> If you are so kind to have read this and are up to it, authors thrive most entire upon comments, a crumb is ever appreciated.


	29. Palely Loitering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I'm still around. Just... slower. As ever, thank you for patience and your eyes; I am ever grateful for all of you. ♥

Long after Aymeric has lapsed, drained and soul-wearied into sleep, Kohanya sits at the small desk in his room, sketching out and detailing as much information as she or Eos can recall about what they saw on either end of the transformation and the possible natural magics or incantations involved. She reviews it all carefully. Then again.

In the end, she can only conclude regretfully: she does not know enough yet.

\-----

The next morning, after carefully copying out her notes, Kohanya dresses in the most conservative gown she has on hand. Not that she thinks Y’shtola is a prude — far from it, even — but rather because the other miqo’te with her high-status markers makes her nervous. Ishgardian nobles are one thing: respected miqo’te women with confidence and clout? Well. Memories of home are not always comforting. Thus, armored in fine fabric and the intricate web of embroidery, she goes to seek out her fellow Scion.

\-----

They end up ensconced in a familiar side parlor at the Fortemps Manor, Y’shtola somehow seeming as at home there as Anya herself. Carefully, the scholar spreads out her papers, laying them in order on the coffee table. The archon’s unseeing gaze follows her notes, lips pursed in thought. “You use aetherically charged ink. Clever.”

A slight shake of her head sends Kohanya’s hair brushing against the high neck of her gown, her senses attuned far more to the small sounds than usual in consideration of her companion. “It is necessary when preparing spells for the grimoire, and I have taken up the habit of using it for all magical related work for both consistency and ease.” Reaching for the papers, she drags one to the middle, fingertips tracing a layered and interwoven geometric shape. “I cannot be sure my memories are exact, but I think this is very close to the pattern I saw in the aether at both transformations. It happens to look very similar to this—” Another sheet, this one older and carefully diagrammed in another hue. “Spell that arcanists are taught to use to invoke sleep. To suppress the consciousness.”

The other miqo’te seems to watch her face for a moment, then Y’shtola’s eyes fall back to the pages. She moves them closer together, then breathes out softly. “I see what you mean, with the way the flows are ordered. This aligns with what Krile and I believe we might have seen.” A cloud-filled gaze flickers rapidly over the papers, starting to align more of them into pairs or groupings, and Kohanya struggles not to hold her breath as she awaits further elaboration.

(She fails, but no matter; Y’shtola only allows herself a moment’s small smile at the gasp when the scholar does remember to breathe again.) “There was the bare hint of another aetherical signature under Nidhogg’s. Before you go utterly insensate with hope, please, keep in mind that we have no way of knowing how long that will last, or if what remains of the Azure Dragoon is even sane. Still, together with the comparisons you have made of the exertion of his natural draconic power to codified spell use, I admit it appears likely that the wyrm is still actively attempting to suppress and control that other soul.” The Sharlayan woman’s voice is cool and steady, but there is enough tracery of gentle warmth to it; even if Y’shtola intimidates her, the other miqo’te was the first Scion she met, and she suspects the conjurer takes a certain pleasure in having been the first to bring home another with the Echo.

Hesitant as her tongue touches her lips, trying to lick away the dryness of her nerves, Anya finally asks, softly, “Am I also right that the Eyes seem to be acting as a magical focus, much akin to your staff, or my tome?” If she has a card held in reserve, it is this: The memory of Gae Bolg slamming against her wrist to make her drop her grimoire, and the feral glee on Estinien’s face when it allowed him to best her.

Without a tome at hand to focus her, she knows her skills are far less. If the same is true for Nidhogg and his eyes…

She waits, barely breathing, to hear Y’shtola’s evaluation, with no sound of her intent. There must be some suspicion, because sightless orbs meet hers with probing intensity, but she does her best to remain still and placid, the calm surface of an undertow. Finally, the white-haired woman nods. “Not precisely, since the eyes are, of course, part of the dragon’s own form. However, yes, all indications are they must be present to work their magic, since we know the removal of both eventually leads to the dragon’s death.”

Releasing her breath in a quiet rush, Kohanya nods. “I thought much the same. Thank you for sharing your insights.” She reaches for the papers, then hesitates. “These are a copy; do you want to keep them for your own use?” Y’shtola’s quick nod and the gleam of avarice is answer enough, the scholar laughing quietly as she helps the other Scion gather up the sheaves of paper.

\-----

After Y’shtola’s words, Kohanya is only more certain — but certain is not the same as _sure_ , and she will be as close to sure as she can get for this. Estinien matters too much to do otherwise. She has spent enough time on her restless days haunting the Manufactory learning to handle a firearm that it takes little effort to coax Stephanivien into the use for a mana cutter for an afternoon. If the worst comes to pass, she supposes at least he can pass on where she went, for all she keeps her plans vague, giving the impression she is mostly leaving to gather wild plants for alchemy.

Alright, that is a lie, but she feels justified. After the long flight out to the Mists, Anya carefully considers the small islets near the howling winds of the Aery and lands the mana cutter near the single scraggly and twisted tree atop one. Careful to be sure it is well stowed, she then turns to her familiar, resting a fingertip atop Eos’s tiny head.

“I know you’ll want not to, but I need you to stay here. Keep a close eye on the aether around the Eyes if he shows, please?” She as much feels as hears the rattling buzz of dissatisfaction from the faery and smiles gently. “I know. But I truly intend — hope, anyway — to come out of this largely unhurt, alright? I need your help.” The tone of Eos’s buzzing drops to a more harmonious note and the scholar smiles gently before walking to the other end of the island.

Now then: attracting attention. Opening her tome and pulling aether through it, she casts a few spells, then settles back to wait, trusting to the effects of aether and flashing lights to draw attention. Before the sun moves too far towards the western horizon, a trio of darting dragonets nears and encircles the floating clump of rock she has claimed in intermingling spirals, trying to move too fast and too far to be targeted by her spells. Since she does not actually care if she hits them, and just wants them to run off and call back something nastier, her few half-hearted attempts to toss a few curses is enough to drive them away again.

She waits.

And he comes, with the first clouds drifting from the north, dark and heavy with the promise of a storm. First in the form that is his own, sinuous midnight scales on a moonless night, ripped wings beating against the sky, eyes shining malicious vermilion. Then he recognizes her and as laughter rolls through her mind, harsh and without any true mirth, Nidhogg’s draconic body twists and shrinks, the aether warping, tearing, writhing, rearranging. For better or worse, her prayers are answered, and Anya bites down lightly on her lower lip, silent and waiting as she intently tracks the patterns woven through the aether. Perhaps Nymeia bears some mercy still in her heart.

Almost, after the transformation, is the shape of who she truly wishes to see. Almost. The long, lean, muscled limbs, hidden by familiar mail, the obscuring helm, the glimpse of a familiar jaw and lips. Not like this, though, twisted into a sadistic smile, not with the body framed by the vast spread of leathery wings, massive eyes spinning to focus on her at shoulder and forearm. He lands, a scant handful of fulms away, and she becomes aware of the presence now of clawed ends to gauntlets and greaves, or… Kohanya is not even certain they are still separate from the body beneath, perhaps better to call them hands, feet. This was the man — dragon? — she saw before, framed in veins of scintillescent ruby light. Holding very still, her guts trembling and full of ice, she waits with as little sign as she can manage.

~Are you truly fool enough to challenge me alone, in my home, mortal? Did you think I would be merciful once more, because I ignored you when my father's touch hung heavy on you?~ Nidhogg tilts his head very slightly, studying her, and the scholar moves with deliberate care to close her tome, tucking it into the carrying straps at her side. The wind stirred by those wings whips the hem of her coat and robes against her leg, almost hard enough to sting, and she’s glad she left off her hat.

Kohanya gives a small shake of her head, keeping her gaze locked on that narrow glimpse of face, as if it were the only oasis in the desert. "No. I merely wished to speak with you." This is even true, at least in part. She wants to speak to him, yes, but so much more as well, to unravel, undo, to take what has been twined together and untwine it, free the strands. If, if, if. If there is still something there to free.

Without any forewarning she can detect, Nidhogg takes several steps in, moving until he is within easy range for arms or hands, and that sadistic curve on what should be Estinien's lips turns outright vicious, baring sharpened teeth amid a dark thread of pleasure. ~A pointless gesture, little healer, provider of my eyes, consort of my host. He really does hate when I share my ideas on killing you or the other one. An amusing form of entertainment, if not anywhere near as much suffering as your kind deserves.~

One of those clawed hands comes up to trace over her cheek, the touch almost curious, delicate in the way one finger hooks so that it drags a long furrow through her flesh. A heavy runnel of blood starts to track down her neck as the wound bleeds freely and she can hear Eos's anger in the back of her head. She holds tight to the mental order for her familiar to stay put with the mana cutter, out of reach of the dragon.

There is a constant, roiling, harsh sensation that makes her head ache and throb, and she thinks it must be Nidhogg's aether, pressing against her own with a smothering force. The vast wings flap behind Nidhogg's stolen body, sending further gusts of wind that tug through her hair and at her robes like greedy hands, splatter the running blood into further droplets to mar skin and hair and fabric. The hand lifts away from her face, bringing bloodied fingertips to familiar lips, and she watches, almost hypnotized with horror as the dragon slowly licks the digits clean. The instant the blood is gone, he moves again, fast as a dragon, fast as a dragoon lancing through the heavens. A clawed hand grapples to spin her, pulling her heard back against Estinien — _Nidhogg_ _’s_ — chest, one arm wrapped to hold her arms to her sides, as his other hand pinches her chin between sharp fingers. ~It will be sweet, when your city falls and burns, to kill you among the ruins, to hear the last remnants screaming when I tear you and the male apart. To make his nightmares come to life as a last gift for giving me this new body. Who would desire such frail, weak things as you mortals? Hraesvelgr was ever a fool.~ 

Harsh planes of metal against her spine, chill seeping to her own skin, the scent of brimstone and rotting things fills her senses. So still, the miqo’te holds herself, all too aware that moving incautiously could lead to injury via armor. Kohanya is surprised at her own voice, even as soft and deferential as it is, trying not to provoke worse. "You know we will fight back." The dragon just laughs again, and his claws yank her chin up, cold as ice and hard as his heart. His lips crash into hers, less a kiss than a taunt, sharp fangs scraping her lower lip painfully as she struggles to pull away.

And humiliatingly, it still shreds her soul, like she's the finest lace caught on a nail, fractures and dropped stitches radiating out through her ‘til she's a snarled, ruined mess, tears welling in her eyes like the rain clouds overhead. Even the ghost of it, the chance to pretend he might have been there, that she might have felt him again…. Instead of him, instead of either of them, all she can taste is blood and levin and ashes. Not a dream, a nightmare, waking and walking. She holds tight to the dim thought beating like butterfly wings at the back of her thoughts — if Nidhogg speaks of wishing to break Estinien, _he is still there, deep down_.

A moment studying her features. Another rumble of sadistic mirth, as much felt as heard, then Nidhogg shoves her away and down, tripping over her own feet as she’s pushed with brutal, dismissive force. There is no way not to fall, be knocked staggering and skidding in the dirt turning to mud with her blood and sweat, grinding into her face and tearing at the gloves that struggle to protect her hands. ~I look forward to our next meeting, false consort. Your blood will water my children’s throats.~ By the time she staggers back upright, face now awash in tears from pain and grief, Nidhogg has taken to the air, form warping and shifting as the oppressive force of his aether batters against her sense of self like he already has her body.

Despite his words, he turns and leaves her then, alive if not unharmed. She does not know if that is Midgardsomr's influence or Estinien's, or just that he truly does simply want the poetic justice of murdering her as Ishgard falls.

Eos is quick to buzz back to her side with the dragon gone, scolding as she starts to heal the wounds on Kohanya's face, seeks out scrapes and bruises from falling on hard stone. The miqo'te offers her familiar an apologetic smile through her tears, but inwardly, she slowly swells with a sense of relief. It was enough; in all the taunting, she got the confirmation she needed before settling further into her plans. _He is there, still. Enough of him, I hope._

Grim smile on her face, she returns to the mana cutter, reaching to pull a linkpearl from her belt and slotting it into her hair as she starts to climb in. Touching the switch to open the connection, she speaks, hearing the traces of giddiness to her voice. “Alphinaud? I think I have a plan. Can you meet me at the Manufactory in a few bells?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to bug me? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> If you are so kind to have read this and are up to it, authors thrive most entirely upon comments, a crumb is ever appreciated.


	30. With a Kindred Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been awhile, I know, but never fear, things continue apace, spiraling closer. Hopefully, with not events or exchanges in the immediate future... XD Hopefully, you enjoy all this talking.

‘Tis no surprise that Alphinaud is at the Manufactory by the time she lands and returns to Ishgard. The mana cutter itself is pristine, although Stephanivien’s aghast look and Alphinaud’s sharply indrawn breath when they see her say enough of her own state. Touching a hand to the grit on her cheek, Kohanya reassures quickly, “I imagine it looks much worse than it is! Nothing so bad in the first place and already healed. But I know I look a fright, so if Alphinaud could help escort me home quickly, that would be appreciated.”

The best lies are woven from threads of truth and so it is here, at least in that it convinces Stephanivien, who does not even know her terribly well. And she did call ahead to warn Alphinaud. Gallantly, he takes her arm, despite being much shorter, leading her outside. Beyond earshot, he hisses sharply, “Do not consider an attempt to tell me this is merely the result of a fall while ‘gathering herbs’, no matter what you told that man.”

“If I intended to lie to you, I would not have contacted you to meet me.” Kohanya points out mildly. Around the corner, Alphianaud stops her with a hand on her arm and steps back to get a better look. He does not seem to like what he sees, rummaging in his coat pockets until he digs out a handkerchief. A handful of reasonably clean snow off a railing later and the shorter elezen boy is scrubbing at her face like he is her mother. “Alphinaud!”

“You are not going any further into the city looking like that. If the guard does not run for Aymeric or the Fortemps family, it would be only through the grace of the Twelve!” 

The appalled note in his anger is enough to subdue her until the touches of freezing cold cloth cease and Alphinaud’s hand drops. Looking away, he adds in a quiet mutter, “Your face was half over blood.” She reaches a hand to touch it, knowing already that the skin is smooth and healed. Although, yes, now it is cold and slick, rather than sticky or gritty with blood and dirt.

“… Ah. Yes. Thank you.” Only now self-conscious, she looks away. “Let us find a quiet spot to sit and I can fill you in.” 

\-----

A short walk later and they find a nook amidst the balustrades where the angle of the buildings will cut the wind. Leaning back on chill stone, Kohanya absently works fingers through her hair as she talks, trying to free it of dried gore. “I went to talk to Nidhogg and before you panic, I am obviously alive and I learned several things you will very much want to know.”

“Ob - Obviously alive! Kohanya!” Alpinaud’s genuine distress melts her a little further, before his own resolve sets in. Squaring his jaw as well as any Ishgardian man, he swallows his distress and focuses in on her news. “Never mind that now, tell me, what did you learn?”

Head hanging to let her hair fall a bit around her face, shamelessly abusing the dark strands as a slight veil, Kohanya looks out over the abyss surrounding the city. “He is still alive in there, Alphinaud. Y’shtola and Krile thought they saw signs and Nidhogg’s own words confirmed it. Mayhap more out of cruelty of the part of the wyrm, but that is more than enough. He can be saved.” A slight pause and the indrawn breath of the boy — man — who has been like a brother for both of them. “I think I might know how.”

She is quiet too long before speaking more, thoughts tumbling in her mind like an avalanche, overwhelming yet certain. Alphinaud huffs and steps a little nearer, encouraging. “Go on.”

Fingertips absently brushing against the spine of her grimoire, Kohanya swallows. “No matter what it looks like, the Eyes are not truly fully melded to him. With enough power, especially if Nidhogg has been weakened, I believe it is possible to remove them. Physically.” Briefly lifting the book, she adds softly, “We disarm him.”

Alphinaud frowns, curling his hand against his chin. “Simplistic enough that I presume that it would not be as easy as grabbing and not letting go. I would imagine there are magical bindings that would need to be broken?”

A simple nod of her head is all it takes, as the young Sharlayan elezen starts to pace, looking thoughtful. After a few moments’ patience, Kohanya asks gently, “Do you need feedback? Or if you have your own research and planning to do, I should change before I cause anyone else distress.”

Alphinaud’s hand waves in the air absently. “Yes, yes, of course, take yourself home. I think I must needs visit the Scholasticate, to ascertain if I can find copies of a few volumes I remember from the libraries back home…” He pauses his musings, then turns to face her fully, a hand reaching to squeeze her arm. “We will do this, never fear. We will not leave anyone behind this time.”

She smiles back, but tears sting sharply at the corners of her eyes all the same as she hurries to the nearest aetheryte.

\-----

Upon arriving at the house, Anya carefully lets herself in via the garden door, trying to stay quiet in hopes of not drawing the attention of any of the servants until she can change. She makes it up the stairs, to the point where the two wings of rooms branch, before a small form twines around her ankles, feet stumbling a moment on the stone tiles before she can catch herself. The cat lets out a loud meow of protest. Even as she leans down to scoop up Snowflake, intending to affectionately scold (pet) the cat, she hears a voice from the propped open door in the guest wing. “Anya?”

Freezing in place as the other Warrior steps out in the dimly lit hallway from her own room, Anya cuddles the cat close to her chest, shamelessly using him as an attempted shield for her current state. Alas, it is apparently not the most effective one, as the slight glow of Atara’s limbal rings is modulated by her squinting to look closer at the scholar. “I was wondering where you were. Are you alright?”

Plastering a bright smile on her face as Ta stares suspiciously at her and at Eos, the scholar says, “Just some scratches I got doing field research. If you can give me a few minutes to change and clean up, I would be happy to give you the summary.”

She can tell Atara is rather unconvinced by her explanation, but hesitant to push more directly as the scholar balances the cat with forepaws resting on her shoulder. “I can stoke the fire in the library. Meet me down there in a few minutes?” When Anya nods her agreement, the dark knight slips past towards the stairs, the shadows seeming to linger a little deeper and darker in her wake.

Still, best not to question an opportunity. Quick to make way to her own rarely used room, the scholar washes her face properly, as well as changing and brushing through her hair before catching it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon. After a moment of scrutinizing herself in the mirror, making sure there’s no obvious signs of her momentary injuries, or the damage to her earlier clothes, she straightens the sleeves of her dress and heads back downstairs.

Ta waits in the library — Aymeric’s home office — by the fireplace, a pot of freshly brewed tea on the sideboard with two cups. Two bottles of cider also sit on the hearth, being warmed by the heat of the fire. The au ra woman eyes her critically for a moment, raising an eyebrow at the choice of a full gown, rather than something more casual, and Kohanya tries to deflect. “’Tis not so late yet, there’s been no evening meal, and Aymeric is still at work, after all.”

Ta’s flat look as she snags one of the bottles of cider, popping the cork, is accompanied by a wry, “Aymeric has been known to come home past midnight at times, and the only reason he actually makes it home to sleep most nights instead of collapsing somewhere at the Congregation is your presence.”

Anya clears her throat, choosing not to address that — Aymeric’s tendency to overwork remains an occasionally touchy issue — and goes to pour herself a cup of tea. Keeping her eyes mostly on her friend and fellow Warrior of Light, she starts her explanation with caution. “I went to talk with Y’shtola this morning.”

“About what?”

“Patterns I had noticed in the aetherical energy during Nidhogg's transformations. She saw the same parallels and agreed that it appears he is still actively using his power to suppress a second consciousness in some way." Anya settles to sit, legs crossed demurely at the ankle, watching the dark knight side long as she speaks. 

A flickering of light from red limbal rings accompanies a blink. "I thought she and Krile were...already counting losses." Caution and compassion are odds in her voice, as if she wants to be kind to prevent a relapse into the earliest days after Thordan’s defeat, when melancholy and shock still had their most powerful hold on the scholar.

“Originally, but they apparently both saw small hints of a second source of aether in Nidhogg at the conference. Given that he confirmed it..." Anya misses her slip in her excitement, leaning forward to rest her forearms on her knees, eyes alight. 

The slip does not pass by unnoticed; Ta goes still, staring at the deep shadows for a second before she asks, voice lowered and slightly rough. “Anya, what do you mean by he?”

Her gaze following the xaela’s, although she sees nothing in the darkness, the scholar bites her lower lip. “I went to talk to the foremost expert on Nidhogg’s aether, you could say, with Eos along to help me document my findings.”

Ta’s eyes flash bright again, her free hand lifting to grip the mantel as if for support. “So that would be who? Hraesvalgr? Midgardsormr?” Despite all the clear questions, her tone is still flat, as if she already knows and clearly does not approve. 

“If I had the choice to talk to Midgardsormr when I wished, I may have, but despite following me about for so long like a stray puppy, there seems little interest in randomly appearing for a friendly chat. Although I would like to talk to Hraesvalgr soon…” Anya lets out a sigh and shakes her head, the miqo’te’s ears tilting back towards her hair. “Nay, as I think you already guessed, I went to speak with the great wyrm himself.”

She had hoped to present things her own way. Such a desire is thwarted when Atara hisses in a breath and lifts a hand to her eyes. Of all the damned times for the other woman’s Echo to kick in… There is naught to be done for it but to wait it out, face set grimly.

When she rises back out of the vision, Ta gives the scholar a stricken look, her healed but still scarred hand clenching and unclenching in and out of a fist slowly. “Why would you do that, Anya? He could have…”

Even as she shakes her head, the miqo’te’s chin lifts, firm and unflinching. “Many things could happen, but do not. Between his desire for causing pain as widely as possible and the same factors that may have held his hand originally, I was sure the greater likelihood was that killing me would not suit him.”

“And that didn’t stop him from hurting you!” The words are almost spat, and she can see the tension in the other Warrior’s body, the way she struggles against the driving anger of a dark knight. 

Anya counters calmly, "He barely did anything. A scratch. I've had worse fighting bandits." 

“Enough to leave blood all over your clothes isn’t a scratch!”

The scholar’s mouth draws into a tight line. “Whether or not I carry a sword, I am capable of fighting and choosing my own battles, Ta.”

“Walking into the home of one of the Great Wyrms isn't 'picking a fight', it's suicide!" The calm replies seem to only frustrate the au ra more, Atara clenching her jaw and eyes closed, turning away.

Anya shifts to her feet, closing the distance to lay a gentle hand on her friend's arm. "Have faith in me, Ta."

"You could have died." The au ra's voice cracks as she replies, eyes clenched closed and head hanging as she grips the fireplace mantle. "The ones I had faith in have all left."

Hand sliding up along the arm ‘til it can grip firmly at a shoulder, Anya points out softly, "I could die slipping on the ice outside, or being thrown by a chocobo, or any of a thousand unseemly and ordinary ways. If I did not do things because they might kill me, I would make very poor use of the power we have. I do not believe that is a reasonable choice." She gives a slight squeeze of the shoulder under her hand. "We still have no sign anything went terribly wrong with Yda and Papalymo. With Raubahn back, we would have found proof if they had been captured or killed. Wherever they are, I'm sure it is merely well hidden." 

Although she stays trapped in her own doubt and internal struggles for a long few breaths, slowly Ta starts to relax, leaning a little into the hand at her shoulder. When she seems calmed enough, Kohanya pulls her fellow chosen of Hydaelyn into a tight, reassuring hug. "I'm fine, Ta, promise. I don't intend to make a habit of this sort of thing either, alright?”

The au ra returns the hug for a few seconds, regaining her control gradually. “You’re supposed to take me with for protection. Keep that in mind, okay?” Kohanya nods back solemnly, because usually, she does, she simply felt she could not have risked anything that might have kept Nidhogg at bay. Nymeia forgive her for the fates that bind her heart.

\-----

Strangely — or perhaps, on futher reflection, not — Aymeric takes it the best. Ishgardians are used to foolhardy heroism, she supposes. After a moment of searching her face with solemn eyes, the dark-haired man leans to press a soft kiss to her brow. “The notion is terrifying, but if I have faith in any who have not already passed to Halone’s halls, it is in you, my dear one.” His arms wrap her shoulders, pulling her into warmth and for the first time since she landed in the Mists, she realizes she truly feels safe. “I must act in Ishgard’s best interests first. Yet it reassures me to know that even if I do not know the details, I am certain you are watching for every chance to keep my heart whole.”

Tears well into a haze over her eyes, Anya leans into him, into gold and gentility, solid and comforting. “Always for you. Alphinaud and I must needs research a little, but I think very soon… I will ask you to come with me to seek help. One way or another, he is hungry for the end, which means we must either succeed or—“ and on that, her voice stumbles, cracking, and Aymeric just cradles her closer, a slight tremble to his broad hands. “Or in the kindest ending we can give.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to bug me? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> If you are so kind to have read this and are up to it, authors thrive most entirely upon comments, a crumb is ever appreciated.


	31. Among Cloudy Trophies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man this one was a fight and then came in a massive rush to be meatier than I ever expected. Gave me an excuse to research evening hair care routines of the late 19th century, though!
> 
> Bonus thanks to Sparkling for being a regular blessed soundboard and to the Bookclub, particularly TenKeyLess, for helping me work out what I wanted in one scene. 
> 
> Additional bonus thanks to all y'all reading. ♥

Alphinaud’s window for research ends within two days, when they are summarily ordered to Aymeric’s office for a meeting. If he has tried as ever to keep the specific details separate from their personal lives, Kohanya has more than half a notion of what is likely to be on the table. After all: they know Nidhogg will come for Ishgard. The only question is when and what can they do to prepare.

And to be sure, that is the first thing that Alphinaud asks after, if there has been news. (And there has not, none more recent than her own, which Aymeric had _not_ chosen to share.) Then after, as to Ishgard’s defenses, as if there were any that could hold off a Great Wyrm restored to his full power, while they had lost what they had stolen.

His suggestion that they seek an ally of equal power in Hraesvalgr sparks things in her mind, and Alphinaud’s no doubt. A hand laid on his forearm, light but impeding as she cuts in softly, the weight of her gaze falling squarely to meet Aymeric’s. “You speak as the acting leader of Ishgard, not as yourself, I believe. You will carry that intent?”

Alphinaud is all but buzzing under the light touch, wanting to ask but trusting to let her finish her part first. She is grateful for that, as the Lord Commander’s gaze flicks away and back in what in anyone else might be a wince, his voice worn as smooth as river stone by regret and worry. “There is no one else who can bind themselves to speak for Ishgard in this nor in general. If I go, it must be for my people that I speak, not for myself. Yet… I would have you with me.”

His gaze meets hers fully for a moment and softens, enough that she is certain of the unsaid truths, that she and Alphinaud are there because in his heart of hearts, while he will obey his duty, he hopes they will follow a different calling, and he wants to give them a chance. There is a soft, indrawn hiss beside her as the younger elezen comes to the same realization, his small chin dipping in a solemn nod. “We would be honored to accompany you as allies of Ishgard.”

\-----

In the interest of time, Kohanya makes an argument that they allow her to carry them to the Aetheryte at Anyx Trine, given her ease at making us of such travel. Alphinaud looks only mildly concerned, although perhaps she should have taken more worry at Aymeric’s uncertain frown.

Sadly, she did not.

Which is why Alphinaud is inside making small talk with dragonets while she holds Aymeric’s hair back from his face, making soothing sounds as his doubled-over form retches into the bushes outside the old, half-ruined tower. After he has been reduced to dry heaving, she wets a handkerchief in water from her pack, passing it to him wordlessly to clean his face and mouth.

It may be the first time she has seen Aymeric so embarrassed that his blush disappears under the edge of his shirt collar. Taking her canteen after to manage a few sips to clean his mouth, the knight murmurs, voice raw, “Foolish of me to hope that I would have somehow gotten better at handling that with time.”

“I do not believe it works that way, no.” Anya agrees with an apologetic smile, reaching to squeeze the Lord Commander’s hand for a brief moment. “You should have warned me, but now I know. Do you think you are well enough to speak with Vidofnir?”

After a returned squeeze of her hand, Aymeric smiles wryly. “So long as you can assure me I will not represent Ishgard reeking of bile.”

Laughing, she takes his arm, starting to lead the much taller elezen over to the interior of the tower and the spiraling stairs. “Not too badly so, at least.” Watching him, Anya’s face softens, catching much of the wonder he has at each new sight, fascinated by this glimpse at the history of his own people, so long lost.

After their conversation with Vidofnir — polite confirmations of little more than they already knew, that Nidhogg would be a problem ‘til his end, and that Hraesvelgr will be no more welcoming — they begin the long hike to Moghome. Oh, Alphinaud grants her ‘permission’ to roam ahead, although he pinks a little at the amused look she gives him after.

For a moment, she lets herself dream as they hike onward and upward, imagining instead being able to retrace their steps with Estinien on his other side, where they could share in Aymeric’s delight at every new sight and wonder. The way his eyes sparkle like a boy again as the reach the height to see the floating islands in the sky, the wondrous rapture as he turns to take it in. If only she could take his hand now, clasp him close and share this moment properly.

Instead, she shackles herself, the reminder ringing in the back of her thoughts. For this, he must be Ishgard, not Aymeric, and much as she longs to touch him, she respects the difficult walls he forces himself to keep. She will not be the one to take that method of coping from him, not by choice, not when she could choose to be kind.

\-----

As much hope as there may have been otherwise, the rapidly darkening skies as they crossed the Mists, even with the longer days of late spring (such as ‘spring’ counts for anymore in Coerthas, at least) necessitate a stop to make camp. _Not_ at the same place they had before, either before or after their first meeting with Hraesvelgr; she knows she would not sleep in the first for the memories of Estinien and poor Ysayle, and the second…

Well. Even if she could find the spot they had chosen that night, not far from the Aery, ‘twould be both unwise and would surely stir other recollections.

So instead, when they reach the slight gathering of moogles at Asah, the call for a halt is reasonable. After a brief debate over the best options, in the end, the decision is made to leave the tents packed and take two of the still standing single story round dwellings for the night, as walls make better guards than canvas. She means to take a third, but Aymeric takes her packs from her wordlessly, carrying them in with his own, and it seems the matter is settled. She feels better with them all close together, in any case, when Alphinaud’s rest will be just a short distance away.

Aymeric ducks into the building he has selected for them and when he re-emerges a few minutes later, his formal armor has been replaced with a pair of slack, a high-necked black shirt, and an alluringly cozy looking dark blue sweater. After a second’s consideration, Anya sweeps her eyes up to meet the Lord’s, voice thoughtful. “Ishgard off to bed for the night, and Aymeric again ‘til breakfast?”

He is quick to close the gap to her side, arm around her shoulders to pull her close against the warmth of his much taller form before he kisses the top of her head. “Precisely so. And as such, Aymeric de Borel would beg you the indulgence of joining him for supper, although I fear I am not able to promise my camp stew is quite on the level of the food in Ishgard.”

Letting out a brief snort of laughter, Anya takes Aymeric’s hand in hers. “Let us retrieve Alphinaud and let him join us for the meal. He can tell you all about how he learned to gather firewood.”

\-----

Past dark, with Alphinaud’s carbuncle set on patrol, with wards drawn at the egresses of both buildings, they return to their room for the night while Alphinaud sits on the stoop of his own, deep in conversation with the local moogles about their mythology and history. The pair are more than happy to leave him to it. The fire in the old hearth they cooked dinner over still crackles, a little lower but unlikely to go out on its own ‘til sometime in the small hours of the morning, the heat the hearth emits a blessing in the thin air and intense chill of the heights. It makes it at least bearable, if dimly lit, within the walls.

Aymeric pauses in loosening the buttons of his own shirt to change again for sleep when he catches sight of Anya rubbing at the pale line of a scar on her forearm. Despite being barely visible, ‘tis not the first time he has seen her fuss at it. Curiosity presses him to abandon his own task, move to lay his hand atop hers, fingers touching the memory etched into her skin. “Anya?”

She startles and looks up, the first drops of melting snow gleaming at the corners of her eyes. “From Estinien, you know. Sparring, when we first were here.” She rubs at her arm, gaze focused on the past instead of on him. “I would have healed it, but I was so tired after everything, and then I woke from a nightmare. He came out to join me at the fire, saw that, lost his temper and—“ Quickly, Anya cuts herself off, but the color that floods her face says enough.

A dim flicker of jealousy, but no more than that. What matters it in the end, that Estinien wanted her, that he had her first, when his instinct so rapidly became that half-fearful, half-hopeful stumbling together, a desire to share the rare loves that pierced that armored heart as surely as Halone’s spears. Gently, he pulls the scholar closer, starting to peel her robes away from the rounded curves of her body. Pausing to brush a gentle kiss against her lips, he confirms, “he allowed himself enough leeway for you to know his heart.” She nods mutely, hands folding and hanging garments as he removes them, down to smalls and a silk chemise when Aymeric gently covers her hands with his. “He had a nightmare as well, I suspect?”

“A bad dream, he said. So, for Estinien, it must have been a particularly awful one.” Anya’s voice trails off and in that moment her eyes crack open to show her doubts and self-condemnation, the regret at failing to save the first one to reach for her. It hurts, to see his own fear reflected, and Aymeric makes a gentle, soothing sound before settling to sit on the edge of their combined bedrolls. He rests his hands on her hips, pulling the miqo’te closer, pressing another kiss to the silk covering her belly.

“Hush, my heart. I know you are doing what you can to change things and when the time comes, I will know the full truth of it, hopefully when Halone grants you success. For now, have faith.” He tilts his head, smiling up at her fondly, chin still brushing against the silk. “I am afraid the winds up here have been a bit rough on your hairstyle. Would you like me to braid it before we sleep?”

A slow blink, and he watches her mind slowly drift back down into her body, breath finally escaping in a soft sigh. “Yes, please.” She slips from his arms, coming back with brush and hair oil in hand before she settles to sit before him, kneeling between the spread of his legs, facing out to the fire. Wanting her soothed, Aymeric gently tugs loose the slip of ribbon holding the sides of her hair away from her face. To avoid losing it, he ties it around his wrist, then carefully unwinds the strands of her braid. When all is unwoven, he takes the brush and works in slow strokes, until each section is smooth and gleaming. A few drops of oil in his hands fill the air with the soft floral scent she always uses, the knight slowly massaging the treatment into her scalp and, knowing full well the affect it will have, focusing on the base of her ears ‘til her tension fades away into sleepy relaxation. Only then does he start to plait the dark strands once more, into a single braid that trails down her spine.

When it is finished, he reties the ribbon, finally pulling her back to lean against him and pressing a soft kiss to her neck, lips dragging slowly along skin. “Do you think you can rest now?” Her tired nod is enough for him to slip beneath the blankets and pull her to join him. Anya’s head settles on his shoulder, and much as he had those moons ago, Aymeric curls a hand up, slowly petting her ears and all too aware of the hollow space at his other side as they slip into sleep.

\-----

Thet slept in the heavy shadow of Zenith and woke with it turned away from them, the sun at their back as Anya and Alphinaud lead the way up a spiral path to the heights to summon the ancient dragon. Aymeric might have confessed if forced to speak to himself to a tremor of fear in his belly, cold and heavy. He could force himself to no more at breakfast than tea, and the scholar’s eyes linger on him, concern melting a little of his nerves when he smiles back.

They ascend; they call.

Aymeric has been a knight his entire adult life. He has fought more dragons than he can easily recall; seen them in sizes from darting things barely more than hawks to the towering bulk of the greatest of Nidhogg’s minions. None of them were comparable to one of their originators.

Vast, so vast, sinuous and shining white as the snow, objecting to their call with a voice that rings sonorous in his mind, as if it were vibrating in his bones.

Alphinaud’s words are smooth in greeting and enough to remind him to make his own. Awe and hope are shut away, locked behind the politician’s mask, unruffled and certain. A brief flicker, of memory, of affection, and his eyes flick above to the blue vault of the heavens, the blue of Ishgard, and he speaks. “Greetings, Hraesvelgr. I am Aymeric de Borel. I am come before you to parley on behalf of my people.”

Massive orbs of gold consider him briefly, and even on a dragon’s massive face, Aymeric can recognize doubt and scorn. ~…To _parley_? Thinkest thou thy purpose unclear to me? Thou art come to beg mine aid in the battle against the shade of my brood-brother.~ A brief seething rush of shame and resentment, but if he must endure such for the sake of his city and the future, he will do so without hesitation.

“You… foresaw mine intent.” Of course, he did, but to show weakness will only help their cause. An optimistic fool perhaps, but one who will persevere for the last scrap of hope, much as Ishgard has done for a thousand years. Slowly, his chin lifts from its contrite duck, ‘til blue meets gold, hesitant — for some corner within is still Aymeric, not Ishgard, and knows the fear of facing a dragon — but incorrigibly determined.

~I but read that which is writ plain in thine eyes. Would that thou had wit enough to scry the answer in mine. My beloved Shiva did once build a bridge ‘twixt man and dragon — a bridge which thy treacherous forefathers saw fit to tear down, as thou well knowest.~ A slight movement visible in the periphery of his vision, and if he cannot see clearly, he has little question ‘tis the warrior’s tail, lashing in frustration. So far, all that has been said he has expected to hear from the earlier reports and so Aymeric maintains his stance, upright and sure, eyes steady on the great dragon. ~Thinkest thou Nidhogg was alone in despairing at the murder of our brood-sister? Thinkest thou mine own soul did not cry out for vengeance? Know then that upon that accursed day, my heart did wither in my breast, and thy kind become onto me the harbringers of despair. I permit my children to offer or deny thee aid as they see fit; to warn thy people of my brood-brother’s coming. That thou wouldst dare ask more of me but affirmeth thine incurable arrogance.~ A slow, measured breath through his mouth, as he would to control his breathing amidst the gore of the battlefield. He knows the wyrm’s grief is great and true, but as an Ishgardian, he can only think how many thousands have known such grief and despair, how many had only ever known dragons as the being that scoured light and joy and pleasure from their life.

One more breath as he closes his eyes, head bowed for a moment as he silently recites a prayer to Halone. Let him have the strength to do this, let him have the words to offer his people a scrap of hope, let him convince the unconvincable, let — no, he must only think of and for Ishgard.

A clear voice pipes up to his right, startling him from his petition to the goddess. “We understand that in your despair at man’s betrayal, you seek only refuge of solitude.” Hraesvelgr snarls and to his credit, Alphinaud shows no sign of fear or being impressed at the threatening theatrics. All teeth and horns and scales, and boy becoming a man as he argues for his chosen cause.

~Perceivest thou such light in the dusk of mine existence?~

“I do. If you claim I see falsely, then tell me: why did you consent to bear Ysayle upon your back?” Alphinaud is still calm and persuasive, which is good, because Aymeric can see the distinctive twitch in the lowest extremes of Anya’s tail, the way her ears draw back in repressed anger at the reminder of Ysayle and a death he knows she felt was a needless tragedy.

~Ysayle… Piteous, deluded Ysayle. The child did lament her past sins, and sough to balance the scales with her remaining days. ‘Twas her unquenchable passion, so alike that of my beloved, which did spur me into flight.~ He has to take a step closer to the scholar at that, ready to intervene if she speaks up, increasingly tense with each word. ~And for mine own part, I would countenance no longer the hands of evil men to use my brood-brother’s eye for ill.~ _Right_ , never mind that he is acting as Ishgard, not himself, the wiser choice is definitely a restraining hand heavy on Anya’s shoulder for a few seconds. Then she lets out her breath and he steps away again, recognizing she has regained her self-control.

“So you do distinguish between those who acknowledge and repent their sins, and those who perpetuate them. Interesting.” Alphinaud shows none of his own doubts, none of the Warrior’s frustrations. “It seems to me that you have not, in fact, lost faith in mankind as a whole. Rather, you weigh our respective merits by how we allow the past to influence our future.”

~Spare me thine idle sophistry. Even were there a mote of truth in thy reasoning, what of it? Wouldst thou have me slay mine own sibling to save a city of mortals?~ Something beneath his ribs splits like a rotting fruit falling from the tree, where _Aymeric_ dwells instead of Ishgard. Where the dragon speaks as if such a thing is _unthinkable_ , when his inaction will condemn them to wait for the day when either they will slay the remains of one far more dear to him than any sibling or be slain by him instead. Shoving down the personal pain, he pulls instead on that regret, on the weight of centuries of brothers and sisters, lovers, families, friends, enemies lost in endless war for another’s grief.

Steel flows in his veins and he steps forward in challenge.

His voice rings back to him clearly from the heights and the towers. “Should we suffer ties of blood to bind our hands then? Nay. If the crime is one of unconscionable evil, we must needs condemn it — even should the transgressor be our closest kin. When my father corrupted himself and his followers with the power of a primal, I beseeched the Warrior of Light to slay him — an act alike to patricide.” The phantom memory of the pain of a knife sliding into his belly, the cold rain dripping down his face and hair. “That he did not die by my hand matters little — if anything, it heaps greater disgrace upon my name. But had my father not fallen, he would have drawn countless thousands into a holy war of hellish proportions — which I hold the greater crime. Thus did I order his execution, sparing the lives of my people and yours.” A moment for a breath, the cold burning his lungs, and in ice and steel, he forges onward. “Alas, your brother wyrm now prepares to murder those whom I sought to spare. What is more, he has taken my comrade’s body for his own — but if I must slay my dearest friend to defeat my direst foe, I will not flinch from my duty!”

The clarion of truth as more rot and regret drips deep within, seeping decay into the soil of him, for he will, he _will_ , and oh, the price, but there is no one else to pay it. If that is what it comes to, his only prayer will be that Halone makes it fast and allows him to do the deed himself, spare Anya and Alphinaud wearing the blood of a beloved or a brother on their hands.

~Thou wouldst strike down thy friend and, by example of thy righteousness, persuade me to break mine oath and kill my kindred?~

Before he can even respond, a sudden flash of flight. Aymeric blinks, dazzled, to find the small, dark form of what he would normally consider a hatchling dragon. A hatchling whose voice he recognizes from when the warriors returned to the city in the wake of his father’s defeat, the dragon’s own father, come to deliver the dark news and deposit what remained of the warmth he had sent in pursuit of traitorous blood. _Midgardsormr_. ~Heed me, my child. The servants of Hydaelyn envision a different outcome. They intend salvation not only for Ishgard, but for the doomed dragonslayer as well.~

So they did, and well he knows it as Aymeric, but he knows not why or how the draconic progenitor is aware. The sheer power and _age_ in his voice as he continues, the way it presses against them. ~Believest thou this shade to be Nidhogg returned? Is it not merely a manifestation of his vengeance — the shadow cast by thy brood-brother’s rage? I would not command thee, but ponder well thy course lest it lead thee unto greater remorse.~ For a moment, incongruous, the face of his mother flashes through his mind when as a young boy, when he had returned once again scuffed from an altercation with bullies. Her gentle hand smoothing his youthful cap of curls back into place as she murmured the reminder that he must always remember to act in a way where he will not be disappointed in himself.

Anya’s slight height and softness steps forward in his moment of recollection, her face turned up, wine-dark eyes both burning and pleading. “Help us save him. Please.” He wonders if the dragon can hear the minute quaver in her voice, the fear that he is certain has nothing to do with who she is facing and everything to do with the stakes of her request.

Even before Hraesvelgr speaks, something shifts, some aspect of body language he is aware of but could not name, save that if he were in combat in this moment, he would see an opening to strike. ~Thou wishest to rescue the dragoon from his fate along with all the rest? I do begin to see why Ysayle entrusted her hope unto thee. Thy purpose is pure.~ Of course it is, says his own voice deep within, for he knows she seeks a solution rooted in love and hope. ~…But so too is my brood-brother’s wrath, and ‘tis that which lendeth him his all-surpassing might. Hast thou the strength of will to stand against so terrible a shadow, I wonder? ‘Twould seem I must put thee and thy companions to the proof. I shall await thee in the ruins where Ratatoskr once dwelled. Heed well the words of my children, and hasten to the place of thy trial!~

Wings beat and the vast form rises, even as smaller ones draw close. Meeting each gaze in turn, Aymeric simply nods, as do Alphinaud and Anya. Whatever is asked of them at this trial, they will do their utmost.

For Ishgard.

For one another.

For Estinien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to bug me? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> Comments are appreciated, as always!


	32. To Never Letting Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, it has been a long time coming, here to the Final Steps, but there are still more to follow. Yet I am so very pleased to finally be here; I hope you are too, and that this shows a little of that chaos and fear and ever, ever hope.

Aymeric cannot help but wonder what trials Alphinaud and Anya are facing as he tosses himself out of the way of another of Vedrfolnir’s strikes, armor rattling bruisingly against his body as he rolls. Quick to spring back to his feet, he darts for the dragon’s flank with Naegling, managing a light score over the scales.

A trained and, if he is objective, skilled knight might be able to take out a dragon of this age alone, but it would be a rare thing. Aymeric is under no delusion that he could end this with the swiftness and power of a dragoon, but he can at least keep himself from being utterly annihilated. Or perhaps Verdolfnir merely allows him to feel that he has not made too poor a showing. He is experienced in reading a dragon’s intent to attack and how; knowing their motivations? Well. That will be an entirely new skill that he supposes he must begin to learn.

The sun creeps slowly towards the horizon and finally, finally the dragon lifts his head, wings flaring out. ~’Tis time to return thee to thy companions. Your dedication is clear, ser.~ Sheathing Naegling at his hip once more, Aymeric steps to climb on board once more, clinging with rather more significantly aching muscles as the powerful wings of the wyrm work to lift them into the air and back towards Zenith.

\-----

They land and Anya and Hraesvelgr are speaking already, the miqo’te standing close enough that one hand rests on the massive snout of the dragon, whatever words she shares with him torn away by the rush of wind. Even knowing they are here as allies, to beg assistance, the flare of adrenaline at seeing her so close, where if his patience snapped it would be an instant to an ending at draconic fangs, sends his heart racing in his chest, breath catching.

It is easier as he slides back to the firmness of stone and grass underfoot, and when he can see her face, carved into firm lines of determination as she steps back to greet him and Alphinaud, hurrying in from the other side. Aymeric wants to reach for her, to touch her for reassurance and to ask after her own ordeal, but Ishgard cannot. Mayhap after they return, there will be time.

Together, they receive confirmation that their ally has been won over. Whatever she (or perhaps Alphinaud, he muses) has hatched, Hraesvelgr will participate. There is a brief moment of concern when the great wyrm mentions Ysayle, which he knows is something of a sore point, but Anya manages to keep her expression still other than a slight indrawn hiss of breath. The discussion continues, even when their audience finishes.

Somehow, he knows what will happen when he hears Alphinaud’s words — “I only wish we had more inkling as to when he meant to strike.”

No solider more than a season out in the field would ever make such a pronouncement.

It matters not, for as if summoned by their hubris, a clarion of draconic origin shakes the very firmament, sweeps across the sky in warning.

The time has come, too fast, too soon.

\-----

He is about to cross the distance to Verdolfnir to climb atop the dragon’s back when a small hand catches his sleeve and Anya steps in front of him. “Wait. Before we go…”

He is already leaning down, and she stretches up, fingers twisting tightly into the thick curls at the back of his head as she pulls him down into a long, hard kiss, mouth bruising and hot. When it breaks, her breath faster now, she gives him a fragile smile. “I cannot tell you to stay far away, nor even to run if the worse happens and I fall, because I know your duty will bind you. Still,” her grip has not loosened, face close enough that she can stretch to lean her forehead on his own, voice fierce. “No matter what, I love you, Aymeric. Do your best to stay safe and protect your city and I will do my best to stay safe and retrieve our beloved.”

Crushing her closer, aware that his armor may well be bruising her back with the tightness of her grip, the Lord Commander swallows heavily before responding. “Remember I do not wish to lose you either, my love. Do what you must and forgive me if fuss over you after.” He offers a smile that is as much practice as truth, but it is enough to earn him a determined nod and one last brush of lips before the miqo’te sinks back to the flats of her feet and finally breaks the embrace.

As she turns to climb Hraesvelgr’s mass, she glances back at him over her shoulder, the wind turning her dark strands into a flickering river of ink. “Pray to Halone for us, and I will to Nymeia, and together, we will see this through.” She then swings herself up, one hand lifting to touch an ear — calling back to pass on word of their imminent arrival to the other Warrior, left behind in Ishgard to help guard the city.

\-----

Estinien dreams so long they become fragments instead of scenes, breaths and gasps of color illuminated by flickering candles in a cathedral hall. Nidhogg flows between and among them, a choking smoke that steals every hint of light as soon as he turns to it. In his wake, warmth becomes cold, light dark, and the memories warp and twist on him.

An idle boyhood afternoon, fresh-caught fish grilling on a stick over a fire as two young voices laugh.

_The sound of those voices screaming, one his own, and the fire is everywhere and the smell, the sickening smell of charring meat._

Aymeric’s sweet smile in the moonlight as he pulls back from a kiss on an evening patrol.

_The agony that replaced it when a heretic_ _’s arrow buried itself into his chest, the red of blood on the snow, the —_

**No.**

He was sure that never happened; Aymeric is Lord Commander, he cannot be dead. The hue of a life leaked out on the snow at night sparks another memory.

Eyes the hue of blood spilled on the moon, Kohanya’s wrist in his hand when he drags her to him to kiss and she surges in to return it.

_The bones of her hand and wrist grinding together under his grip, as he tightened it ‘til she keened at the pain, promising to do anything he asks if he will just stop._

**No.**

Her hand in his as they hurry to his tent. The hunger and longing as she watched him undressing.

_Her wrist still grating in his grip. The way she stumbled when he threw her into his tent and down on the bedroll._

They blur and blend, the truth and Nidhogg’s distortions, where everything burns and dies, where he is the weapon that destroys what he holds dearest. Yet in the end, something in him nags on the details. That there is no way to fake the trust in the eyes of a child. The touch of smooth skin, the twitch of a furred limb against his sleeping form, half-rousing him to press closer. Aymeric’s rich, velvet voice, compelling to the bone, gasping in his ear, whispering warmth against his neck.

Each alone is but a fleeting instant, but like snowflakes, together, they become something else entirely; the low, quiet, stubborn certainty that once ( _yet?_ ) he was cared for. Loved, even. There _is_ more than the pain, the suffering, the death, the loss, the burning, and while the weight of it grinds him down, again and again, these moments shine, diamonds amidst the coal dust.

All too rarely, Nidhogg’s focus slips and he can see more. Or perhaps ‘tis by design; he cannot but wonder so the time she comes to speak with the dragon in the Mists. The laughter had swirled around him, rancid and choking, when he could feel her blood warming Nidhogg’s claws ( _warming **his** fingers_). That focused the wrym for some time, the dragoon tormented with a fresh wash of dreams of her dying in Ishgard, of Aymeric’s death the same way.

It slices what remains of him ( _his sanity? His soul? He knew not that he could claim to either any longer_ ) to shreds, but he clings on, stubborn and sure. He must, to do what he can, do _something_ as the song begins, for the sake of the few lights still gleaming in the embers of him.

\-----

It feels right, for his boots to ring out with impact first on the stone of the Steps of Faith, Aymeric sliding from Vedrfolnir’s back to land in a heavy crouch. A quick swing of gaze reveals Lucia, Lord Artoirel, and Atara holding the line some short distance behind. Part of him aches to turn forward, to move past, to stand for Ishgard, to meet Nidhogg himself.

But ‘tis not to be his place in this. Instead, he falls back to join them, chest tight with fear and anticipation as Alphinaud’s light landing follows him, the soft flutter of Anya’s skirts on her own dismount lost in the clamor. She does as he cannot —

Walks forward, head held high, a maiden sacrifice, a bride to the altar, the power of Nidhogg’s beating wings sending her dark hair tangling in the chain that adorns it, whipping robes of white and deep green around her like forest boughs. Knights stumble past her, injured and hale, in retreat behind the new front line, Hraesvelgr at her side. The pound of feet past him as Atara skids to stand with them as well, two warriors, one wyrm.

The dragons debate — argue — and it makes the situation so much more surreal even before the sky goes sickening and swirling, painted in impossible colors as Hraesvelgr and Nidhogg rise, as they tear at one another, fang and claw.

Hraesvelgr falls, his wing torn free and dangling from Nidhogg’s jaws. He does not yet know what the plan is, and fear runs through him like the frost, spreading in rapidly growing fingers from his spine out to his limbs, freezing him in place. They cannot have lost already…

The dragon’s eyes — _eye!_ — opens.

Empty.

Yet the power is not gone, and even as he watches, the light of Hraesvelgr’s Eye flows into Anya, suffuses her, and she, hands spread in welcome, takes it to her with a grace befitting one touched by the divine.

Aymeric has perhaps seen battles more harrowing, but none that pit him against himself so, as Anya and Atara surge forward to meet Nidhogg, as sword and spell are brought to bear on dragon in stolen skin. He must fall; Nidhogg _must_ fall. Ishgard can bear no more. But every blow that lands, be it on woman or wyrm, ‘tis like he can feel it against his bones, tearing him apart, as blood falls on stones and all is smoke and ash and a thin beam of hope.

Nidhogg’s form changes and Aymeric knows he will see this in his nightmares the rest of his life, be it short or long. The twisted corruption of Estinien’s body, the sight of his diving from the sky to try and impale their lover. The fact Atara is a breath too slow in knocking her aside, the rent the lance tears through her robes and along her hip. From the distance, he cannot see the blood but he can see the slow darkening of her clothing, green muddied to brown before inhuman wings bear the dragoon’s stolen body aloft once more. As aether shifts and contorts and the wyrm appears once more, he watches the flashes of healing magic along her flank, over her companion, wrapping her in arcane protections.

He has no idea how long the fight lasts. Long enough for it to seem his heart stops his throat. Long enough that Lucia’s grip on his arms presses bruises into his flesh, because she cannot trust him not to go to them, and he… He cannot blame her for doubting.

Fire and blood, ash on the wind, and a final vicious slam of Atara’s greatsword through the dragon’s wing. Nidhogg ripples and collapses in on himself, a man in shape once more. Some balance has tipped and he tears himself from Luica’s grip, stumbles a few steps forward. Alphinaud surges past him and he falters, only to be stopped entirely when the short but all too solid form of Atara slams gently against his chest, the second Warrior bracing him in place. “My apologies, Ser Aymeric, but I swore I would not let you risk yourself ‘til she was sure!”

\-----

Estinien feels it, when the dragon is nearly beaten, when his body crouches, aching ( _can he feel the ache now? It has been so long and oh, he had forgotten what physical pain was like!_ ) and snarling threats at his lover and his near brother. His arm draws back, and the au ra is running away ( _she cannot! He needs her here, to stand between him and those he loves, one final obstacle for the wyrm!_ ) and she is gone and —

His arm draws back his spear, his own body shifts seamlessly into a stance that he knows will drive the lance through her heart, split her open and spill her across the stone, and —

_I will **NOT!**_

****

There is no way to describe what happens in that instant, no words for the clash of wills and aether, the howling, screaming, tearing and fighting in his mind, the way they struggle for dominance. He has saved every scrap of himself left for this moment, every miniscule mote of love and hope and determination.

The lance falls to the ground, the clatter like the bells that called them to mass at the Ferndale chapel.

Nidhogg tries to fight him with body as well as mind, but he knows now, has the nails of his soul dug in to grip on reality, and he cannot, he _will not_ let go, will not give the dragon the chance to tear her asunder, to backhand Alphinaud away, to give in to the urge to lunge past them for the distant form in gold and blue, struggling to reach him.

He collapses, hand at his own throat, but he has control, he has _enough_!

Lifting his head, he finds her eyes, the shade of blood at night. Better his kitten than the boy, she will wear the scar of his death on her soul with grace. “Anya. Please, one last favor. Finish it, finish me, now, while I still have the beast subdued!” Let her listen, oh, let her do it, let him slip free before he can hurt either of them, before he gives in and can reach Aymeric, set him finally _free_!

\-----

Estinien begs hers for death, for release, and for an instant all she can remember is the old elm at the crest of the hill near her childhood home. One night, amidst a massive storm, lightning had struck the ancient tree, a section of the trunk exploding in steam and sap and leaving a vast, weeping scar that the tree bore ever after.

She feels like that tree, as if his words have carved away some piece of her and left it raw and seeping, never to fully heal again.

But there is no time, no time to feel, and she is running, and Alphinaud is behind her, and she _reaches_.

Kohanya digs fingers into the twisted and swollen flesh of Estinien’s lower arm and leverages all her might, aether twisting into knife blades tipping each digit as she tries to pull, to pry the Eye free. Power swells and erupts, burning over her skin. She can hear her own voice screaming, a pain beyond even the aches and strain of battle, Alphinaud’s agonized cry matching hers, but oh, they cannot let go, they must, they must —

The pain is so bad her muscles spasm against her will and she nearly loses her grip, sobbing in desperation, praying with every whisper of her pulse to Nymeia, to Halone, Menphina, Rhalgar, Hydaelyn, anyone, everyone, oh, please, she will not let him go, she will not lose him too, please, please, please, _please!_

She is only half-aware as Estinien begs for death once more and the rent in her tears wider.

The sudden sensation of a hand atop her own and for an instant, she stills in confusion.

Blue.

Not morning, icy and bright, not midnight, rich and velvet, but the pure brilliancy of an afternoon sky at summer.

She knows many eyes like that now, but these were first.

_Haurchefant!_ Her lips shape his name, and he smiles, nods, and she grips again.

Ysayle’s gaze meets hers next, hand atop Alphinaud’s, and there is no shame to the trails of tears that paint her face as together, the four of them, half ghosts or aether, it matters not, _pull_ with wills that shall not be bound by despair.

\-----

The Eyes come free.

\---—

The rest is a blur. A burst of light. A dragon’s spirit rising to the clouds. Aymeric, literally _shoving_ Atara forward across the pavement to cry out to them. The Eyes, falling into the fog. Estinien on the ground, unmoving but for the weak rise and fall of his chest.

She must have shown it was safe, because soon, Atara is off to find Artoirel and Aymeric crouches at Estinien’s side, lifting the dragoon with a tenderness in his face that would shame a man carrying his bride over the threshold.

It is impossible and it is perfect and —

And —

_He survives!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to bug me? My various social media (can be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> A comment for a starving author is always appreciated; this one was a lot to face and try and show the emotions, and if anything in particular worked, 'tis lovely to get to know. Or even if not!

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest thanks to everyone from Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling [Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) for writing wonderful things, then encouraging other people to fall face first into trying it out themselves too. If I break my nose in doing so, it'll be my own fault.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [and since we've no place to go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28416213) by [seimaisin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin)




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